Page 21 of Ruger's Rage

"How? By pretending nothing's wrong while you shake every time the door opens?"

"Better than being someone's damsel in distress."

His expression shifts—surprise, maybe respect. "I'm not offering to save you. I'm offering backup."

The distinction matters. It acknowledges my agency while extending support. Maybe that's what lets my guard slip, just enough.

"My ex might have found me."

The words hang between us. Ruger's jaw tightens, and I see controlled anger in his eyes—not at me, but for me.

"Tell me everything."

I give him the abbreviated version—Marco, the manipulation, the violence, my escape. I don't mention the baby. That pain is too fresh, too private.

"He has connections to the Grim Vultures," I finish. "I heard them talking once. They help move his product."

Understanding dawns on Ruger's face. "Fuck."

"Yeah." I hug myself, suddenly cold. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring this to your door."

"Hey." He grabs my chin, gently but firmly turning my face to his. "You didn't bring anything. Some piece of shit from your past is threatening you. That's not your fault."

His touch sends electricity through me, and I jerk away. He lets me, but the concern in his eyes doesn't waver.

"We have security measures," he continues. "Cameras, guards. And the Vultures? They won't touch anyone under Saint's Outlaws protection."

"Why would you do that for me? You barely know me."

He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. When he does, his voice is low, almost vulnerable.

"Because I know what it's like to carry guilt that's not yours. To think you deserve bad things because you couldn't see them coming." He meets my eyes. "And because when that fucker grabbed you last night, something in me snapped. Like you were already mine to protect."

The admission steals my breath. Everything about Ruger should terrify me—the leather, the muscles, the easy capacity for violence. He's exactly the type of man I should run from.

But when he looks at me like I'm precious, like I matter, my body betrays every survival instinct I've developed.

"I can't," I whisper, not sure if I'm refusing his protection or acknowledging this impossible attraction.

"Can't what?"

Be vulnerable. Trust again. Want someone who could hurt me.

"I can't handle more violence in my life."

"Then we'll handle it differently." He pulls out his phone. "Let me make some calls. Extra security on the bar. Eyes on the roads leading to town. If your ex shows up, we'll know before he gets near you."

The efficiency with which he mobilizes protection should scare me. Instead, it makes me feel... safe. For the first time in months.

"You don't owe me this," I say.

"Not about owing." He tucks his phone away. "About choices. I choose to protect my people."

"I'm not your people."

"Not yet." The words carry promise and warning in equal measure.

My heart pounds as he leaves the kitchen. Through the pass-window, I watch him rejoin his brothers. They lean in as he speaks, their expressions hardening with shared purpose.

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