Page 61 of Crusher's Illusion

It’s sharper than that. That thin, meanpitchpeople get when they want a fight, and think they can make one with nothing but words.

Peach is right in the middle of it, all red lipstick, heels too high for anyone who’s actually done a day’s work. Trouble wrapped in perfume and pretty smiles that turn men stupid.

She’s got Nevaeh pinned near the end of the bar, one hand planted on the wood, the other tracing lazy circles in a dried ring of whiskey like she’s winding up a trigger.

“I’m justsaying, ” Peach’s voice carries, sugar-sweet but cut with something venomous. “This place used to run smoother before strays started pretending they were Ol’ Ladies.”

The Honeys behind her laugh like they’ve rehearsed it. Sharp, hungry, the kind of sound that feeds on blood. A couple of hang-arounds drift closer, grinning like they’ve been handed front-row seats.

Someone cuts the jukebox. Just a soft click, but it slices the air clean in half. Silence settles in, and it’s not friendly.

Nevaeh doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. Her jaw flexes once. “You’re saying a lot for someone who doesn’t wear a patch.”

Oh. Good girl.

Peach’s smile goes thinner. “Oh, honey,” she coos, leaning in close enough I can see the glitter on her cheek from three strides away, “I don’t need a patch to know when something’s bad luck.” She tilts her head, eyes flicking to the crowd and back like she already knows some of them agree. “Funny how the Iron Cross keep showing up where my men meet. Funny howyoukeep being around every time something goes sideways.” A soft hum of attention from the crowd. “Makes a girlwonder.”

A few heads turn, not toward her. Towardme.

I cross the last few feet slowly. Controlled. The kind of quiet that makes smarter people move out of the way without thinking about it.

Peach doesn’t move. She stays planted, like she thinks that smile of hers is body armor. It isn’t.

“Walk away.” I don’t raise my voice. No need. Low and flat and cold enough to be remembered.

Peach blinks. Just once. “I’m just looking out for the club.”

“That’smyjob,” I cut in. The room shifts, the reminder settling over the brothers like a weight. “And if you want to keep yours,with your legs spread wide, you'd better learn the difference between talking and starting shit.”

Peach hesitates, then opens her mouth.

I take one step closer. “Nevaeh is off-limits. You got a problem with her, you bring it tome.”

Every patch in the room is watching now, but not jumping in. Not stopping it. Just watching. Recording. Choosing sides.

Peach’s eyes flick over my shoulder, searching for backup she’s not gonna get. The smile pulls back into place like a mask.

“Ain’t no saints here, Crusher,” she says, sweet as rot. Then she turns and saunters off, hips swinging, like she didn’t just pour gasoline across the floor.

The tension doesn’t break right away. It just…hangs there. Waiting.

Nevaeh lets out a slow breath. Barely audible, but I hear it anyway.

“You good?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

“I will be,” she says, but her eyes aren’t on Peach. They’re on the room. At Honor, watching Caine too closely. At City, who hasn’t moved from the bar and hasn’t stopped counting people and angles since the moment the jukebox died.

“Stay close,” I murmur. She doesn’t argue. Just steps in beside me like she’s known those words her whole life.

And that’s when I know, we’re past the point of no return.

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE DEVILS CROWN

CRUSHER

The clubhouse doesn’t breathe right tonight. It’s not loud like usual, no brawling over pool scores or Honeys climbing into laps. It’s quieter. Every laugh cuts off a second too early. Every glance has too much weight behind it.