20. Fault Lines
TWENTY
FAULT LINES
CRUSHER
Her lips taste like salt and smoke and the kind of promises people break when they’re scared. But Nevaeh isn’t pulling away, not this time.
Her breath hitches as I pull her closer, letting my hand slide down to her hip, anchoring her, like maybe that will keep her here. Keep us from blowing apart again.
Nevaeh deepens the kiss. Slow, searching, desperate. It’s not about sex, it’s about survival. About holding onto something real while the rest of the world spins with blood and betrayal.
I lift her, and she wraps her legs around my waist, pressing herself against the hardness behind the zipper of my jeans. Blindly, I walk us up the two steps of the old porch, open the door, and carry her inside, closing the door behind me with the heel of my boot.
I press Nevaeh’s back against the cabin wall, my hands cupping her jaw like she might vanish if I let go. Her pulse thunders beneath my thumb, and it’s not fear, it’s want.
Her hoodie slides off her shoulders and puddles on the floor.
My fingers hook the hem of her shirt, dragging it upward, and the fabric catches for a second on her ribs.
She shivers, not from the cold, but from the way my touch slows, letting my palm smooth over her side.
The bruises are fading, shadows of what she’s been through.
But the scars under the skin I recognize, because they’re mine too.
“You sure?” I ask, my voice low and rough. My forehead rests against Nevaeh’s for a beat, like I need her answer to be carved in stone. “I won’t rush this.”
Nevaeh’s fingers curl in the front of my cut, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. “I want this, Erik. I want you. Even if it’s the worst idea I’ve ever had.”
That earns a broken laugh from me. “Then we’re finally on the same page.”
We stumble toward the bed, shedding layers of clothes and logic. Her hands map every bare inch of my skin, like a reporter cataloging truth, but there’s no agenda in her eyes, just an ache. Just need.
I push Nevaeh back onto the mattress, bracing over her, my body caging hers without pressing her down. Her skin is warm under my palms, her breath hitching when my mouth finds the curve of her throat.
I take my time sliding my hand down her stomach, hooking my fingers in the waistband of her jeans before pulling them off slowly, like I’m unwrapping something I’ve wanted far too long. She lifts her hips, impatient, but I hold her still for a beat, meeting her eyes.
“Tell me to stop, and I will,” I murmur. Nevaeh’s answer is to drag me down and kiss me like she’s trying to burn the words out of existence.
I shift my hips and grind against her, causing Nevaeh to moan, and I swallow them. I tweak a nipple, and she bucks, pressing into me.
“Stop teasing me, Crusher.” Nevaeh pleads.
“Erik,” I growl against her throat.
“What?” She pants as I lavish her breast with my tongue while my other hand slides down her body to the apex of her thighs.
“When we’re like this, I’m not Crusher, I’m Erik.” My fingers sink inside of her, and she releases a long groan. I flick, push, and curl them inside of her, driving her wild.
“Please, Erik, I need more.” My name rolling off Nevaeh’s lips snaps my self-control.
I pull my hand away and settle between Nevaeh’s thighs.
I sink into her like a man starved, her nails catching on my shoulders as she pulls me deeper.
The air between us turns hot, heavy, every shift of her hips drawing a groan from me I can’t bite back.
She gasps my name in a half-plea, half curse, and it undoes me.
It’s not frantic, but it’s not gentle either. It’s somewhere in between. Slow enough to feel every inch, hard enough to make her toes curl. She meets me move for move, breathless, lips parting like she’s about to speak and then forgetting how to form words.
When Nevaeh comes, it’s with her head tipped back, my name breaking from her lips like a secret she’s not supposed to tell. I follow her over the edge, the sound of her moan dragging me down with her.
For a moment, neither of us moves. I just stay there, inside her, our foreheads pressed together, while our breathing slows. My hand finds hers, fingers lacing without me even thinking about it.
“Still the worst idea?” I ask quietly.
She smiles, tired and a little wrecked. “Ask me again in the morning.”
I roll onto my back, pulling her with me until she’s stretched across my chest. My arm wraps around her automatically, my palm resting between her shoulder blades. She tucks her face against my neck like it’s the safest place in the world.
And for tonight, I let her believe it is.
The cabin is quiet except for our breathing. My arm stays wrapped around her, her face tucked into the crook of my neck like she’s found the only place she can rest.
Her fingers trace lazy lines across my chest, not searching anymore, just memorizing. “I didn’t think I’d feel safe again,” she murmurs, the words so soft I almost miss them.
I press my lips to her temple. “You’re safe with me.” It comes out without hesitation, and I don’t know if that’s a vow or a lie, but right now it feels true.
Nevaeh tilts her head, catching my gaze. “For how long?”
I should answer. Instead, I just pull her closer, my thumb brushing the hollow at the base of her throat. There’s something about the way she looks at me, like she’s not seeing the Vice President of the Saints Outlaws, but the man underneath, and that’s dangerous. For both of us.
We talk in pieces after that. Little fragments about nothing important. She admits she hates sleeping without a fan running. I admit I can’t sleep with the window closed. She laughs, says I’m stubborn. I tell her she’s worse.
At some point, her breathing evens out, her weight settling heavier against me. I watch her for longer than I should, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the strands of hair curled against her cheek. She looks like trouble even in sleep. Trouble I’ve already decided I can’t walk away from.
I tell myself I’ll close my eyes in a minute. Just one more minute to memorize the feel of her in my arms. The heat of her skin. The faint scent of her shampoo lingering on my shoulder, her pressed against me, her hand curled on my chest, like she’s holding on for dear life.
Sometime after midnight, I drift off with my hand still tangled in her hair. For the first time in weeks, there’s no noise in my head. Just the rhythm of her heart and mine, beating in something close to sync.
My eyes lift open to the sun peeking through the windows, causing dust motes to dance.
I shift onto my side and feel for Nevaeh, wanting a repeat of last night, but my hand slides across the mattress, finding nothing but the cool dip where her body should be.
There’s still a faint dent in the pillow, still the whisper of her scent on my skin.
The cold doesn’t just sit on the sheets, it seeps into my chest, into the space where her warmth was.
Last night’s heat feels like it happened to someone else.
This isn’t a bad dream, it’s worse. It’s real.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the floor hard. My chest feels tight, like someone reached in while I slept and twisted my ribcage in on itself. I shove the blankets aside and move fast, scanning the corners of the room, then the tiny kitchenette, then the bathroom. Nothing.
Her coat’s gone. Boots too. But her backpack sits slouched against the wall, unzipped. That’s wrong. Nevaeh wouldn’t leave that.
And then I see it. Her laptop is open and waiting on the table in the kitchenette. I freeze in the doorway. Because if I touch it, I might learn something I don’t want to know. But the gnaw in my gut is already telling me I have to.
I throw on a pair of boxers and walk over to the teasing little beast. I plant my hand on the table beside it. The screen’s still lit, her password is already entered.
Her whole life is right here in front of me. Dozens of files are open. Drafts of the article. Notes. Field memos. Voice recordings labeled with timestamps. Some are tagged with names I recognize. Steel, Killian, Erik Morrison. My stomach coils, ready to turn on her again. Then I see the emails.
To: Bria Thatcher
Subject: Revisions Pending-PLEASE HOLD
Bria,
I’m not submitting this. Not yet. There’s more at play here than I realized. People will get hurt. I need to pull the article and revisit the angle. Do not schedule this until I speak to you directly.
Nevaeh
The time stamp is forty-eight hours before the article went live. The day before I visited her in her office. She knew then something was off.
I scroll through her emails and find four more follow-up emails, sharper than the last.
To: Bria Thatcher
Subject: DO NOT PUBLISH
Do not publish.
I retract my submission.
This is not cleared.
Bria—call me. Please.
Every word feels like a blade slipping between my ribs. Nevaeh didn’t just try to stop it, she fought for it. For us. I looked her in the eyes and called her a liar, and Bria ignored her.
The last message catches my eye. It isn’t from Bria at all. It’s from a name I’ve never seen in her contacts: Cypress Strategies Legal Team.
My chest goes ice cold. Jordan’s voice echoes in my head from the files. His warning about Syndicate front companies, the ones that bury bodies in legal briefs and PR fluff.
Bria wasn’t sloppy. She was bought.
My hands curl into fists before I even think about it. My ears ring like someone just fired a gun beside my head.
Bria didn’t just ignore her. She sold her out. Bought off by the Syndicate to push the article live and paint a target on Nevaeh’s back. On all of us.
“Fucking hell.” My voice is low, sharp, and breaking in the middle. I slam the laptop shut.
Nevaeh didn’t betray us. She was betrayed, and I was too damn stubborn to see it.
The guilt is different this time. It’s not the sharp, angry kind I can use to fuel me.
It’s heavy and ugly, like a weight pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe.
Every word I ever threw at her comes back jagged and ugly, cutting deeper than anything the Syndicate could do.
I thought she was the risk, the crack in our armor. Turns out she’s been caught in the crossfire of a war that started before she even knew the battlefield existed.
Now she’s out there alone. With a target on her back the size of the damn state.
I finish getting dressed, grab my cut from the chair, shrug into it like armor, and reach for my Glock. My phone’s in my hand before I even get to the door, dialing the one person who can help.
Steel answers on the second ring. “You better have a damn good reason…”
“She’s gone,” I cut him off. My voice is flat. Dangerous.
There’s a beat of silence. “Fuck.”
“She didn’t leak anything. She tried to stop it. Bria was paid off by Cypress Strategies. Check her last bylines, there’s a pattern. She’s been laundering Syndicate intel through fluff pieces for months.”
“You have proof?”
“I have Nevaeh’s laptop.”
Another pause. “What’s your play?”
“I find her.”
“And if the Syndicate finds her first?”
“They won’t.” My voice doesn’t leave room for doubt.
“You better pray you’re right, brother,” Steel says finally. “Because if we lose her now, it’s not just her blood on your hands. It’s all of ours.”
The line clicks dead before I can answer. Sliding my Glock into the holster, my boots hit the porch hard enough to make the boards creak.
I shoot a text off to City and August, telling them what I found and asking for a ping on Nevaeh’s cell phone.
A half a beat later, City texts me.
City: Last call came from a Bria Thatcher. Her editor. I was able to tap into the call, and you’re not going to believe what she told her.
August sends me an audio link, and I click play. My heart drops to my toes.
Then August sends another text.
August: Last ping is a pay-by-the-hour motel, thirty minutes from you. Ride safe, brother.
I’m on my bike in a flash. The engine roars to life under me, vibrating through my chest.
Wherever she’s gone, whatever’s waiting on the other side of that road, I’ll burn through it. I’ll burn everything.
Because she didn’t run. She sacrificed, and I’m not letting that go unanswered.