Page 9 of Crusher's Illusion

The engine’s cold. But I’m burning up. Burning from the inside out.

This was supposed to be a warning. A line in the sand. But I walked into that building and met a woman who didn’t flinch, didn’t run, didn’tbreak.

I could’ve told her everything. Just laid it all bare. But people like me don’t get the luxury of soft landings. Only crash zones.

She’s a threat. But she’s also a spark.

And the worst part?

For the first time in years, I wonder what it would feel like to burn.

FOUR

SPOTLIGHT

CRUSHER

The second I step into the Mt. Pleasant Civic Banquet Hall for a donor’s celebration, I want to turn around and walk right back out.

Chandeliers hang overhead, dripping with old money and egos. Polished floors squeak beneath my dress shoes, and the scent of overpriced bourbon lingers heavy in the air, thick as sweat in a boardroom. Expensive perfume, cologne, and self-importance blend into a scent that makes me want to gag.

I adjust my blazer, the one suit I own that doesn’t scream “I fix bikes for a living.” My cut’s locked up safe at the clubhouse, dress code rules, apparently. The leather still feels like it’s there, stitched into my damn bones. People turn as I pass. Whispers follow. Not the usual kind, either. These people recognize my face now.

Front-page kind of recognition.

At one table, a board member from the Civic Fund raises his glass to me, barely hiding his discomfort. His wife stares at the tattoos peeking from my cuffs as if she expects me to rob the wine table.

They think they know whatoutlawmeans. They don’t know shit.

Behind them, a couple from the Devil’s Crown MC give me that slow, assessing nod. Not enemies, not friends. Neutral for now. Their VP, Gage, smiles like he wants to test my weight in a fight, and I file that away for later.

A donor whispers something to his wife. “What’s a biker doing at a charity event like this?”

Same thing you are,I think,throwing money at a problem and hoping it makes you feel clean.

But none of them matter. Not really.

Because in the middle of all this false gold and glittering bullshit stands Nevaeh fucking Humphreys.

She’s draped in a crimson dress that clings to her body like it was poured over her in molten silk. Her long braids are down tonight, soft around her shoulders. She’s laughing at something the mayor says, tilting her head back as if she didn’t just toss gasoline across my world and light the fuse with her smile.

Steel would have my ass if I bailed, so I pull my jacket tighter and step deeper into the lion’s den.

I move through the crowd, nodding to the donors I recognize. Most of them offer tight, polite smiles until I see Duke Travers, leader of the Iron Cross Syndicate. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. He just stares.

I don’t break eye contact until he mutters something to his VP and walks out. One down. More will come.

“Crusher.” Nevaeh’s voice behind me slices through my spine like a razor blade.

I slowly turn, my eyes sweeping her from head to heel before meeting hers. She’s close now. Too close.

“Nevaeh,” I say her name like it’s bitter in my mouth.

“You made it,” she says, sweet and sharp, like this is some casual run-in at a coffee shop. Like she didn’t just hang a bullseye on my crew with her byline.

“You mademe,” I grit, voice low enough to cut without drawing eyes. “Into a fucking headline.”

Her smile tightens, eyes narrowing just a bit. “It was a good headline.”