19. Breaking Point
NINETEEN
brEAKING POINT
NEVAEH
I can’t sleep. Not because of the argument with Crusher. Not because Rock all but spat in my face. Not even because I watched Killian bleed out and still smell the copper on my fingers.
It’s the silence that kills me. The silence from Erik’s side of the house. From Steel. From everyone. The silence means they don’t trust me.
I sit on the edge of the couch, hoodie wrapped around me like armor, trying to crack the encrypted files Crusher has had this whole time.
The cursor blinks in the decrypted window like it's daring me to keep going.
My backup drive hums against the table, and the recovered files scroll by in flashes.
Blurry surveillance images, clipped phone calls, grainy video timestamps.
Data logs from files tied to a string of safehouse addresses.
One folder marked "ShadowBox."
And then I see it.
A freeze-frame of a girl. The image is timestamped two days before the rescue Jordan died for. A video blinks at me, daring me to press play. When I do, my whole world tilts on its axis.
“We’ve got you. Stay still,” I hear a calm voice from a young teenage boy in the background. It can’t be, can it? Is this Jordan, the boy Crusher couldn’t save? “Just breathe. They won’t touch you again.”
The video continues to play, panning in the back of a pickup. Bright blue eyes wide with fright, mouth duct-taped, bruises coloring her arms. My breath stops in my chest. I know that face.
Lena. My baby sister.
The sister everyone thought was on a drug bender when she disappeared five years ago. She was in the back of that truck. She was the girl Jordan died saving. Jordan was the stranger who helped my baby sister.
And suddenly everything makes a cruel kind of sense.
My hands shake so hard that the laptop nearly slips off my lap.
I slam it shut. My stomach churns, bile crawling up my throat.
I try to breathe, but the panic is pressing in, claws sharp and fast. This was never just a story.
Never just a source. This was blood. This was my family.
And I didn’t even know. This is what they’re trying to bury.
By dawn, I’ve made up my mind. I have to leave. Not because I want to, but because they need me gone. My presence is like a slow poison in their veins. Every time they look at me, they see risk. Death. Exposure.
I push off the couch I’ve been sitting on all night. My feet move before my brain catches up. I need air. I need answers. I need out.
Down the hall, the Clubhouse stretches long and suffocating. I barely register the flickering overhead lights or the murmurs behind closed doors. My chest is too tight. My hands are too cold. I just want to disappear. Before I rip something open I can’t put back together.
I make it to the side door before two shadows block my path. Zane and Zack Wilde. The twin prospects.
“Where are you headed?” one of the twin prospects, Zane, I think, asks casually.
“Air,” I lie. “Just around the side.”
Zack, his brother, leans against the doorframe. “Steel said you’re not to leave the property.”
“I’m not a prisoner.”
“You’re not a patch, either.”
That hits harder than it should. I’m not patched. Not blood. Not trusted. I’m the outsider with the dangerous words and the file that started a war. They’re not even being rude, just doing what they’re told. But that doesn’t stop the burn in my throat.
“I’m not running,” I whisper. “I just… I need five minutes.”
Zack glances at Zane. They share some silent twin-language conversation I can’t decode. Finally, Zack exhales and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Go talk to Steel.”
That stops me short. “What?”
“You want space, that’s where you get it. You go through him. Not through the door.” They’re right. I know they are.
So I turn back. And this time, I don’t go to the common room. I don’t go to Crusher’s garage. I go to the one place that’s always been closed to me.
Steel’s office.
The door creaks as I open it, and the weight of it feels like it could crush me. Like I'm trespassing into something sacred.
Steel doesn’t look up at first. He’s hunched over his desk, covered in maps, burner phones, and bloodstained notes. When he does look up, it’s slow and sharp. Like a blade being unsheathed.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he says, voice low.
“I know.” He waits. I don’t know what I’m asking for until it leaves my mouth. “Move me.”
His brows lift. “Excuse me?”
“Move me off-site. Somewhere they can’t find me. I’m not helping by being here. I’m a distraction, a liability, and Crusher doesn’t trust me anymore. So get me out before someone else ends up on that table.”
Steel studies me like he’s peeling back layers. I don’t break eye contact. “Why now?” he asks.
“Because I saw something,” I whisper. “And I need time to understand it before I blow this whole thing open.”
He considers that. Then leans back, pulling out his phone and sending a message before crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ll need an escort.”
Crusher walks into the office a few minutes later like he’s ready for a fight.
His sandy brown hair is perfectly styled.
He’s wearing a pair of faded blue jeans that hug his hips, a white t-shirt, and his SOMC cut.
All leather and rage, making my heart skip a beat.
He nods to Steel, not looking in my direction.
Steel’s tone is clipped, no wasted breath. “We’ve got chatter that Syndicate eyes are sweeping this area. They’re looking for her now.”
Steel points to me, and Crusher’s grey eyes lock onto me the moment he spots me.
I blink. “What do you mean me? I thought they wanted Erik…”
“They want both of you.” Steel’s gaze is solid granite. “But you're the variable. You decrypted the data. And you’ve got Jordan’s files.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Need-to-know.”
“And I don’t get to know?”
Steel leans in slightly. “You’re not patched, Nevaeh. Don’t start expecting Club privileges just because you bled for one of us.”
Something in me flinches. But I nod. “Fine. Who’s taking me?”
“I volunteered,” Crusher says, eyes locked on Steel, not me. “If she’s going somewhere, it’ll be with someone who can keep her alive.”
Steel studies him, then nods once. “You leave at dusk.”
We’re on the road before dusk, the low hum of Crusher’s bike filling the silence like static between thoughts. He doesn’t speak the whole ride. I just hang onto Crusher, feeling his stomach muscles bulge beneath my grip, while my mind whirls on everything that’s happened.
The safehouse is a one-level cabin surrounded by dense woods and more shadows than safety. He parks without a word. I wait for him to cut the engine before I speak.
“I didn’t mean for any of this,” I say, climbing off Crusher’s bike. On the ride here, I decided he needs to know everything.
He gets off the bike, stiff. “Yeah, well. Meaning and impact aren’t the same.”
“I saw her, Erik.” I pause, throat tight. “My sister. She was the girl Jordan died trying to save.”
That stops him in his tracks. “What?”
I open my phone, pull up the frozen video frame, and show him. His eyes narrow. Then widen.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper. “Not until today.”
He looks at me like I’ve changed shape. “You really didn’t know?”
“She didn’t tell me who it was that rescued her that night. She was sixteen. She disappeared for three months. Came home broken. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t eat. I didn’t know the whole story… not until I saw that footage.”
He swears under his breath. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“Because I didn’t know,” I choke. “And because the second I did, I knew what it meant. Jordan died for her. And if the Syndicate finds out she’s connected to me…”
“You think they’ll use her to get to you,” he finishes.
“To get to you, too,” I whisper.
He runs a hand down his face, grief and understanding flashing in equal measure. “Jesus.”
“I can help you decode the rest. The files. I know what to look for now. Names. Networks. Patterns.”
“You’re still in danger,” he says. But his voice is softer now.
His face is unreadable. But his hand twitches. Like he wants to reach for me, but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. I don’t apologize very often, but when I do, it’s because I fucked up. “For the article. For the fallout. For not knowing how to stop any of it.”
Crusher doesn’t move for a second. Just stares like he’s trying to convince himself I’m a lie he can’t afford to believe. Then he gives in like gravity’s stronger than pride. His fingers graze my cheek, and his lips brush mine like a question.
I answer.
He kisses me like he’s making up for every time he doubted me. Like he wants to stop the world from spinning just by holding on tight enough. It’s slow and rough and aching with too many things unsaid.
When he pulls away, he presses his forehead to mine. “I want to believe you, Nevaeh.”
“I want to survive this.”
“We both might fail.”
“But we’ll do it together?”
For a second, he almost smiles. “You keep saying that like it’s a promise.”
I close my eyes. “Maybe it is.”
We stand there as the darkness rolls in. No more words. Just the quiet hum of survival and the heavy thrum of something deeper neither of us dares to name yet. But it’s there.
We let the silence hold the rest. And somehow, almost is enough to hold onto.
For now.