Page 43 of Ruger's Rage

"No," I say it with more certainty than I feel. "You're safe here."

"Because of you."

"Because of all of us." I gesture around the compound. "The club protects its own, and one day you’ll understand that."

She is startled at that. "I'm not?—"

"You're with me," I interrupt. "That's enough."

The words hang between us, but I meant what I said.

I introduce her around—to Porter and his wife Sarah, to Coin and his teenage daughters, to Decorum who's manning the grill like it’s his fucking destiny.

She's reserved but polite, slowly relaxing as the evening unfolds without incident.

Eventually, we make our way to Reed, who studies her with those perceptive eyes that miss nothing.

"Tildie, meet Reed, President of the Skulls Renegade MC," I introduce them. "Reed, this is Tildie. She works at Backroads."

"Pleasure," Reed says, his weathered face breaking into a genuine smile as he shakes her hand. "Ruger treating you right?"

She glances at me, something warming in her expression. "So far."

"Good. Man needs someone to keep him in line." Reed winks. "His aunt can't do all the work."

Seamus joins us, his massive frame making Tildie's eyes widen slightly.

"Don't let the size fool you," Reed tells her. "Seamus here cries at Hallmark commercials."

"One time," Seamus protests, his deep voice belying the humor in his eyes. "And it was about a soldier coming home to his dog. Anyone would cry at that shit."

The tension breaks, and soon Tildie is drawn into conversation with Reed about Tennessee, where she apparently visited once as a child.

I watch her, something easing in my chest as she navigates the club world without shrinking away.

When dinner is served, I find myself seated between Tildie and Bloodhound, the long tables arranged in the clubhouse's main room.

Children's laughter mixes with rough biker humor, ladies gossip, prospects serve drinks.

"It's like a big family dinner," Tildie murmurs, sounding surprised.

"That's exactly what it is."

Her knee touches mine under the table—an accident, I think, until she doesn't move it away.

After dinner, as people break into smaller groups, I notice Tildie slip outside.

I follow, finding her leaning against the railing of the clubhouse porch, staring up at stars beginning to dot the darkening sky.

"Too much?" I ask, keeping a respectful distance.

She shakes her head. "Just needed air. It's a lot to take in."

"You did good in there. Reed likes you."

"He seems nice. Not what I expected from a motorcycle club president."

"We contain multitudes," I quip, earning another smile.

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