Page 58 of Crusher's Illusion

But the shift in the room deepens. Tiny tells, nothing a stranger would notice. Brothers choosing seats with clear lines of sight. City leans back in his chair, keeping his right hand close to the knife clipped to his belt.

And through it all, I can feel the weight of what they’re not saying. If Niko’s the leak, it’s not just a breach. It’s personal.

I glance at Crusher again, deep in conversation with Steel, unaware of the thread tightening around someone under his wing. My throat feels tight. Whether Niko’s guilty or not, this club will eat its own if it has to.

And as the laughter and music fill the air again, I can’t shake the thought. Next time the Saints draw blood, it might be from the inside.

I glance down at the clipping again, that little line of text I almost missed, and my gut tells me this is bigger than a prospect trying to impress the wrong crowd. This is a crack in the walls of the Saints’ world, and I just helped put a spotlight on it.

TWENTY-FIVE

KISS AND CUT

NEVAEH

The suspicion in the clubhouse doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens overnight, each brother a little quieter, each conversation trimmed down to what’s necessary. Even Crusher’s laugh has an edge to it now, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

It follows us to Crusher’s home like smoke that won’t shake loose. Even with the door closed and the night locked outside, I feel it. The tension is thin and sharp in the air, clinging to Crusher’s skin.

He tosses his cut over the back of a chair, the heavy leather landing with a dull slap. His boots thud against the floorboards one at a time, a steady, weighted rhythm that makes my chest feel tight.

“You’ve been quiet all night,” I say. My voice sounds softer than I meant, like I’m afraid to push too hard.

Crusher doesn’t answer right away, just stands there, running both hands down his face. The motion’s tired, but there’s something else in it, like he’s scrubbing away a mask hewore too long. “Some shit’s moving I can’t talk about yet.” His tone is flat and deliberate. “Don’t ask.”

My stomach tightens. I bite back Niko’s name before it can escape. If I say it now, I’m not sure what he’ll do with it.

He turns toward me, and the distance in his eyes is like looking across a dark river. Close enough to see him, too far to reach without falling in. He doesn’t come to me right away. Just stands in the middle of the kitchen, feet planted, watching me like he’s trying to decide if pulling me close will fix whatever’s twisting in his chest, or make it worse.

The low light catches the tired edges in his face, the shadows under his eyes. We don’t speak. The hum of the fridge fills the quiet, a soft, steady sound against the thud of my pulse in my ears.

For a moment, it’s just us holding each other’s gaze, no noise, no movement, and the distance between us feels alive, charged, waiting for one of us to cross it. Then he does. Slow at first, deliberate, like each step is a choice he’s daring himself to make. His hands are on me, one sliding along my jaw, the other wrapping around my waist and pulling me in.

The kiss lands hard, heat and whiskey and the faint grit of road dust still clinging to him. His stubble scrapes my cheek, grounding me into him, in the real, physical weight of his presence.

My hands find his shoulders, and he’s solid, hot under my palms, but there’s a restless tension wound into him, like he’s holding himself in check by the thinnest thread. The steady strength there pulls at something deep inside me. He tastes like long nights on the road and everything I shouldn’t want but do.

When his mouth drags down my neck, my pulse jumps, chasing the trail of heat he leaves. I breathe him in, motor oil, leather, the faint spice of his soap fighting with the bite of cigarettes in his shirt. The mix is intoxicating, uniquely him.

We move toward the bedroom without looking, without letting go. My hip clips the doorframe. His thigh knocks into the dresser. Neither of us stops.

He backs me against the wall just inside the room, his palms flat above my head, caging me in. His breath is hot against my ear.

“Need you,” he mutters, and the words aren’t soft, they’re rough, almost an order, but underneath is something fragile, a truth he doesn’t want to admit. It’s not just the heat of him that pins me here. It’s the way his arms bracket my head, the span of his shoulders blotting out everything else. For a second, it feels like the safest place I’ve ever been. For the next, it feels like I couldn’t get out even if I tried.

It hits me that this isn’t just about wanting him anymore. Somewhere between the first time I sat on the back of his bike and this moment, my need to be close stopped being curiosity or heat. It’s an ache to be the one thing in his world that holds steady when everything else tilts. And God help me, that’s not hypothetical anymore. Being here, in his arms, feels like stepping into both safety and surrender at once. I’m not sure which is more dangerous. Wanting to be the thing that steadies him, even when I know it could destroy me, or not letting him and it destroying me.

Honor’s voice cuts in, uninvited:real close to your man.My chest tightens. The bass from the jukebox earlier seems to echo in my head, matching the hard thump of my pulse. Heat prickles under my collar. I try to push it aside, to focus only on Crusher, but danger doesn’t care if you’re half undressed.

Crusher’s fingers hook into my belt loops and pull me toward him. The denim rasp of his jeans catches my thigh as he presses me close. I can feel the solid heat of him, the tension in his body like he’s been wound too tight for days. The flex of muscle underhis shirt, the tight coil of someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.

I push his shirt up, palms sliding over the heat of his skin, tracing the hard lines of his ribs. He inhales sharply, not in pleasure, more like the kind of breath a man takes before he hits something.

We strip each other without finesse. Clothes falling to the floor in impatient tugs, buttons clattering against the wood. My back hits the mattress, but he doesn’t follow me down right away. Crusher stands at the edge of the bed in all his naked glory, eyes fixed on me. His gaze isn’t lust alone. It’s possession, reverence, and something that feels dangerously close to fear.

When he climbs over me, the weight of him settles like armor across me, blocking out the dark, anchoring me in place. Part shield. Part trap, and I’m not sure which one I’m reaching for. His hand cradles my jaw, thumb sweeping across my cheekbone. The touch is almost tender, but his kiss isn’t. It’s fierce, demanding, like he’s trying to brand the shape of my mouth into his memory.

When he pushes into me, I gasp, the sound pulled from somewhere deep. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the tremor in his breath. My nails rake down his back, catching on old scars, holding him there like I could keep him from slipping further into whatever darkness he’s carrying.