Page 67 of Crusher's Illusion

“Not even close.” She blinks like she expected that. Like she already braced for me to shut down.

Instead…I reach into my pocket and pull out a tiny square of leather. Her breath catches.

“This patch,” I say, my voice low so only she can hear, “belongs to whoever stands when everybody else runs. Whoever bleeds for this club. For me.”

I unfold it in my palm. An Ol’ Lady patch, black and green, gleaming under the bar lights. “You earned it. If you want it…it’s yours.”

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Her fingers wrap tight around mine…and the patch.

“I want it,” she whispers. “Only if it’s yours.”

“It’s only ever been yours.”

The bar goes dead quiet the second I turn toward the room, the patch held up in one fist. “Circle up.”

Stools scrape. Boots shift. Every Saint forms a tight ring around us, shoulder to shoulder, eyes hard and proud. City hands me another cut, this one smaller and made just for Nevaeh. I help her put it on like it’s a crown she is worthy of wearing.

“Nevaeh Dawn Humphreys,” I say, loud and clear. “You stand here under full witness. You take this patch with open eyes, knowing who we are and what we bleed for. You accept the protection and the burden of this club…and wear my name like armor.”

Her voice doesn’t so much as tremble. “I do.”

I pin the patch over her heart. The roar that follows isn’t sound, it’simpact.

Fists slam against chests. Brothers nod. Some mutter her name like a vow. Rampage grins so wide it’s almost savage. Honor gives one rare, solemn bow of his head.

Rock leans toward us, clamping his big hand on my shoulder. “She’s earned it.”

She’s not the outsider anymore. She’s one of us.

I hook a hand around the back of her neck and pull her in, mouth hard against hers. She melts into me, fingers gripping the front of my cut like she knows what it means now, and isn’t going anywhere.

Out in the yard, the fire finally burns itself down to embers.

But in here?

In here, she’s not just safe. She’s mine, and God help any man who forgets that.

TWENTY-NINE

SAINTS OUTLAWS

NEVAEH

The cursor blinks at the bottom of the screen like it’s waiting to judge me. One last sentence.

What happened here wasn’t a turf war. It wasn’t a gang dispute. It was a warning—about what loyalty means when violence comes from the shadows and the people sworn to stand with you decide to sell your skin for their own survival.

I stare at the line for a long time. The truth is bigger than one article, bigger than me. There’s more buried under it. Names, bloodstains, choices that can’t be unmade with a clever turn of phrase.

I sit back in the chair and read the sentence again. And again. It’s not enough. not for everything we just lived through, but it’s the truth. The part of it I can tell, at least.

The rest belongs to the Saints Outlaws.

They bled and buried one of their own. They dragged me out of the dark and put me on my feet again. And when the whole world might’ve called me collateral damage, they called metheirs.That kind of loyalty deserves silence just as much as it deserves truth.

I could write every name. I could drop Duke’s initials in the first paragraph and burn his world down from the safety of a headline. I could aim the spotlight straight at every brother standing around the fire pit last night, and watch the entire city draw their own weapons. Because the real truth is bigger than one article. Bigger than me. There are names buried in it. Blood soaked into warehouse concrete. Choices that can’t be unwound with clever wording or public sympathy.

But I won’t.