5. No Retreat
FIVE
NO RETREAT
NEVAEH
The second I see him, the room dulls to background noise, violins, forced laughter, champagne flutes clinking like glass nerves.
Crusher. He walks into the Civic Banquet Hall like he’s dragging thunder behind him.
No cut tonight, but he doesn’t need it. The tailored blazer can’t hide the broad shoulders, the way his jaw ticks like a fuse is burning somewhere deep inside.
Even dressed like the rest of them, moneyed, polished, clipped, he doesn't belong here. He doesn't want to.
He looks like a problem I used to pray for, and right now, he’s pissed enough to level the room. Every step he takes slices clean through the silk and pretense of the room.
“Ms. Humphreys?” The mayor taps my arm, reminding me I’m still supposed to be playing nice. “You were explaining your inspiration for the article?”
I smile like I didn’t just forget my own name.
“Yes, of course,” I say smoothly, shifting my glass to my other hand. “I wanted to spotlight the unseen work being done in cities like this. Real contributions that don’t fit the traditional mold. People who give without the expectation of applause.”
Mayor Harding hums politely. But his eyes flick again toward Crusher, who’s moving through the crowd like a lit fuse no one dares touch. Every politician, donor, and suit turns to track him. They smell danger, but they don’t know the man behind it like I do.
Mayor Harding clears his throat. “It’s a bold angle. Highlighting that... sort of organization.”
Like he can’t quite say outlaw out loud without needing to rinse his mouth after.
“It’s truthful,” I say. “And maybe if more people had a fraction of their loyalty and grit, we’d have less corruption in our schools and fewer kids on the street.”
His brows lift slightly, and he gives that political smile I hate. Wide, polite, and void of real thought. “Of course. Well, enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Translation: Stop shaking the boat, Ms. Humphreys. I nod and watch him leave, already bored with me.
Good. I’m done pretending for these people.
I turn, eyes scanning until I find Crusher again. He’s staring down Duke Travers now from the Iron Cross Syndicate. Just one look. That’s all it takes. Duke mutters something to his VP and walks out. The air shifts. But I know better than to feel safe. That man doesn’t walk unless it’s to circle.
Then, Crusher turns and sees me. It hits like static across my skin. I hold his gaze, not blinking. I think I forgot to breathe.
He walks toward me like it’s a decision he hates making. Each step looks carved in restraint, like he’s weighing whether to strangle me or say something that will leave bruises under my ribs. When he stops in front of me, the heat between us is immediate and volatile.
“Crusher,” I say, aiming for casual, but my voice sounds too soft, too hopeful. Like I forgot I threw his life under the spotlight and lit the fuse. “You made it.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. “You made me. Into a fucking headline.” The hurt in his voice slices cleaner than any insult.
I straighten, folding my arms. “It was a good headline.”
Crusher doesn’t agree. He spits out words like bullets, and I match him, angle for angle, even when my throat tightens. Even when I want to grab his face and make him understand.
He doesn’t know what it took to write that piece. How much heart and soul was ripped out of me with every word, every phrase?
He doesn’t know about Lena, my little sister. She was fifteen when she was picked up by a street crew that ran girls out of a nail salon in Kansas City. Everyone knew. Cops knew. The neighbors knew. No one lifted a damn finger.
I was seventeen. Useless. Too scared to storm in, too angry to sleep. I promised her I’d find justice. All I found was silence.
Except for one man. I never even saw his face. Just a black leather jacket, a deep voice telling her, “Time to go, kid.” He didn’t stick around for thanks. Didn’t wait for a camera crew. He disappeared. That man saved her. And through her, me.
Lena never forgot, and neither did I.
“You’re a writer,” Crusher says. “You make stories. This one just happened to be mine.”
That lands too deep. It echoes in the hollow place I keep behind my ribs. So I say the one thing I shouldn’t. “Dance with me.”
His brows pull together. “Excuse me?”
“The donors are watching,” I say quietly, already reaching for his hand. “Let them see you’re not the monster they’re whispering about.”
He hesitates for one long heartbeat. Then he follows.
We move onto the floor, and suddenly it’s just the two of us and a thousand eyes on us, powerful ones, predatory ones, but I don’t care.
His hand slides into mine. Calloused and warm. Familiar. He could crush me, but I’m not here to break. I’m here to remind him I won’t be erased.
I should pull away. Should remember every tear Lena cried, every warning I ignored, every fear I swallowed to publish that damn article.
But I don’t. I hold on. We move together like we’ve done this before in another life.
“Why’d you really write the story?” he asks.
I could lie, but I don’t. “Because someone once saved my sister when no one else would. And no one thanked them.”
He doesn’t respond. But his grip tightens. A pause that feels like something sacred passing between us. The music swells. So does the ache in my chest.
Then Crusher’s phone buzzes. His entire expression hardens as he reads the text.
I don’t ask because I already know.
Trouble’s here. Because of me.
He steps away. I start to follow, but Slim, Duke’s snake of a VP, glides past him and mutters low enough to chill my bones. “Nice article. Pity if it brings smoke down on more than just your clubhouse.”
I freeze.
Over my shoulder, someone near the bar whispers: “Duke didn’t leave. He’s outside. Taking a call. Watching.”
Watching who Crusher dances with. Wondering where to dig the knife first. My heartbeat stutters. But I don’t let it show.
Crusher pockets his phone. His jaw is stone, but his eyes, those brutal, loyal, tired eyes, land on me like a warning.
He’s about to speak, probably to tell me I need to leave. I need to go back to their clubhouse. That I’ve brought enough heat for one night.
I speak first, shaking my head, my mind is made up. “I’m not going.”
His eyes narrow. “Nevaeh…”
Let them stare. Let the monsters circle. I’ve faced worse in the dark. “I’m not going back to your clubhouse. I’m not hiding while you clean up my mess.”
“This isn’t about pride,” Crusher says, stepping closer. My heartbeat picks up, and his scent of whiskey and metal makes my toes curl, but I stomp it down.
“No,” I say, quieter now. My voice is trembling around the edges. “And I survived by never running. Not from fear. Not from truth. And sure as hell not from a threat.”
We stand beneath chandeliers and hollow smiles, the only two truths in a room built on polite lies.
We stare at each other like we’re the only two real people in the room. And maybe we are. Neither of us flinches. I feel the shift. Consequences settle like dust. I don’t know what’s coming next, but I know how I’ll meet it. On my feet.
Not running.
Not alone.