Page 44 of Crusher's Illusion

The cabin is quiet except for our breathing. My arm stays wrapped around her, her face tucked into the crook of my neck like she’s found the only place she can rest.

Her fingers trace lazy lines across my chest, not searching anymore, just memorizing. “I didn’t think I’d feel safe again,” she murmurs, the words so soft I almost miss them.

I press my lips to her temple. “You’re safe with me.” It comes out without hesitation, and I don’t know if that’s a vow or a lie, but right now it feels true.

Nevaeh tilts her head, catching my gaze. “For how long?”

I should answer. Instead, I just pull her closer, my thumb brushing the hollow at the base of her throat. There’s something about the way she looks at me, like she’s not seeing the Vice President of the Saints Outlaws, but the man underneath, and that’s dangerous. For both of us.

We talk in pieces after that. Little fragments about nothing important. She admits she hates sleeping without a fan running. I admit I can’t sleep with the window closed. She laughs, says I’m stubborn. I tell her she’s worse.

At some point, her breathing evens out, her weight settling heavier against me. I watch her for longer than I should, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the strands of hair curled against her cheek. She looks like trouble even in sleep. Trouble I’ve already decided I can’t walk away from.

I tell myself I’ll close my eyes in a minute. Just one more minute to memorize the feel of her in my arms. The heat of her skin. The faint scent of her shampoo lingering on my shoulder, her pressed against me, her hand curled on my chest, like she’s holding on for dear life.

Sometime after midnight, I drift off with my hand still tangled in her hair. For the first time in weeks, there’s no noise in my head. Just the rhythm of her heart and mine, beating in something close to sync.

My eyes lift open to the sun peeking through the windows, causing dust motes to dance. I shift onto my side and feel for Nevaeh, wanting a repeat of last night, but my hand slides across the mattress, finding nothing but the cool dip where her body should be. There’s still a faint dent in the pillow, still the whisper of her scent on my skin. The cold doesn’t just sit on the sheets, it seeps into my chest, into the space where her warmth was. Last night’s heat feels like it happened to someone else.

This isn’t a bad dream, it’s worse. It’s real.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor hard. My chest feels tight, like someone reached in while I slept and twisted my ribcage in on itself. I shove the blankets aside and move fast, scanning the corners of the room, then the tiny kitchenette, then the bathroom. Nothing.

Her coat’s gone. Boots too. But her backpack sits slouched against the wall, unzipped. That’s wrong. Nevaeh wouldn’t leave that.

And then I see it. Her laptop is open and waiting on the table in the kitchenette. I freeze in the doorway. Because if I touch it, I might learn something I don’t want to know. But the gnaw in my gut is already telling me I have to.

I throw on a pair of boxers and walk over to the teasing little beast. I plant my hand on the table beside it. The screen’s still lit, her password is already entered.

Her whole life is right here in front of me. Dozens of files are open. Drafts of the article. Notes. Field memos. Voice recordings labeled with timestamps. Some are tagged with names I recognize. Steel, Killian, Erik Morrison. My stomach coils, ready to turn on her again. Then I see the emails.

To: Bria Thatcher

Subject: Revisions Pending-PLEASE HOLD

Bria,

I’m not submitting this. Not yet. There’s more at play here than I realized. People will get hurt. I need to pull the article and revisit the angle. Do not schedule this until I speak to you directly.

Nevaeh

The time stamp is forty-eight hours before the article went live. The day before I visited her in her office. She knew then something was off.

I scroll through her emails and find four more follow-up emails, sharper than the last.

To: Bria Thatcher

Subject: DO NOT PUBLISH

Do not publish.

I retract my submission.

This is not cleared.

Bria—call me. Please.

Every word feels like a blade slipping between my ribs. Nevaeh didn’t just try to stop it, she fought for it. For us. I looked her in the eyes and called her a liar, and Bria ignored her.