Page 2 of Ruger's Rage

A hospital visit means police reports, questions neither of us can answer without consequences we'll have to deal with later.

"Just help me clean up," she says, attempting a smile that turns into a grimace with any slight movement. "I've had worse."

Those three words practically slap me across the face.

Worse?

How long has this been happening?

How many times has she covered bruises with makeup or blamed injuries on clumsiness?

How many times have I looked the other way, ignored the signs?

I go to the kitchen, filling a bowl with warm water, grabbing a clean towel and the first aid kit I keep stocked for club business.

When I return, Ellie has managed to sit up straighter, but her breathing is shallow, painful.

I place the supplies down. "Let me see your ribs."

She hesitates, then slowly unbuttons her blouse.

The bruising across her torso makes me swallow bile.

Dark purple marks riddle her skin—some fresh, some yellowing with age.

This isn't the first time. Not even close.

"Jesus Christ, Ellie," I whisper.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she lies, the kind of lie that's meant to protect me rather than herself.

I dip the towel in water and begin cleaning the blood from her face, trying to keep my hands as steady as possible.

The gentleness of my movements contrasts with the violent thoughts filling my mind—images of what I'll do to my uncle Striker when I get my hands on him.

"This is the last time," I promise her, my voice low and deadly serious. "He's never going to touch you again."

Fear flashes across her face. "No, Ryan. You can't... he's the President. Your uncle. He'd kill you."

The coldness in my voice makes her flinch. "Let him try."

I finish cleaning the cut on her lip, applying butterfly bandages to the deepest part.

We both know she probably needs stitches, but we aren't going to put ourselves in that position.

"How long?" I finally ask the question that's been burning inside me. "How long has he been hurting you?"

She looks away, ashamed, as if the violence done to her body is somehow her fault.

That's what makes my blood boil the most—that he's made her believe she deserves this.

"It started about three years ago," she admits quietly. "After that run to Nevada when things went bad with the Devils. He came back different. Angrier."

Three years.

Three fucking years while I patched in, became his VP, sat at his right hand at the table.

Three years of Sunday dinners at their house, where she served us with sunglasses indoors or long sleeves in the summer heat.

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