Page 109 of Ruger's Rage

His expression darkens. "Careful, Elizabeth."

"Or what? You'll push me down another flight of stairs? Kill another one of our babies?"

The words hang in the night air, sharp and painful.

Marco's face goes completely still. "That was anaccident."

"No. It wasn't." I meet his gaze without flinching. "You wanted to hurt me, to punish me for considering leaving you."

"I loved you," he insists, taking another step toward me. "I still do."

"This isn't love, Marco. It's possession. It's control." I stand firm, being the strongest version of myself. "And it's over."

His hand moves suddenly, reaching inside his jacket.

I tense, prepared to dive for cover, but instead of a gun, he pulls out a small jewelry box.

"I bought this the day after you left," he says, opening it to reveal a diamond ring that catches the moonlight. "I was going to propose. Make us a real family."

For a moment, I'm thrown off balance.

It's such a Marco move—using sentimentality as manipulation when threats don't work.

"There is no us," I say finally. "There never really was."

"Enough of this bullshit," Striker mutters, raising his gun. "She's here as bait. Her boyfriend and his crew are watching right now, waiting to make their move."

Marco's eyes narrow, shifting from me to the darkness surrounding us. "Is that true, Elizabeth? Did you lead them here?"

"Does it matter?" I ask, feeling like the situation is balancing on the edge of a cliff. "This ends tonight either way."

The air shifts, tension crackling like electricity before a storm.

Marco takes another step toward me, close enough now that I can smell his familiar cologne.

"You were always smarter than I gave you credit for," he says softly. "But not smart enough to stay away."

His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with bruising force.

I react instantly, muscle memory from self-defense classes I took while on the run.

I twist my body, breaking his grip while simultaneously reaching for the gun at my back.

Before I can draw it, chaos erupts.

Gunfire splits the night air. Striker dives back into the cabin while Marco tries to pull me with him, his fingers digging into my arm.

"Let go!" I wrench away, finally drawing my weapon and pointing it directly at his face.

He freezes, genuine surprise crossing his features. "You wouldn't."

"Try me," I hiss, backing away as figures emerge from the darkness—Ruger and Bloodhound approaching from one side, Maddox and Ounce from the other.

More gunfire from inside the cabin, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

Striker must be trying for a back exit.

"Drop it," Ruger orders, his gun trained on Marco.

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