Page 53 of Ruger's Rage

She sits up, the sheet falling away in a way that momentarily distracts me. "Striker?"

"Most likely. Or someone working with him." I pause, uncertain how to handle this new territory—waking up with a woman I actually give a shit about. "I need to get going."

"I know." She runs a hand through her tangled hair. "Will I see you later?"

The question, so simple, so domestic, hits harder than it should. "Yeah. Stop by the clubhouse after your shift?"

She hesitates. "I don't want to be in the way."

"You’ll never be in the fuckin’ way, darlin’," I lean in, stealing a kiss that quickly deepens. When I pull back, we're both breathing harder. "Last night wasn't just about sex, Tildie. I want you."

"I know," she whispers, her fingers tracing the tattoo on my upper thigh. "Be careful today."

I reluctantly pull away, searching the floor for my scattered clothes.

I find my jeans half under the bed, boxer briefs tangled with her sweats.

I pull them on, muscles tense from the situation at hand, even though all I want to do is crawl back into bed with her and run my hands along her luscious curves.

My shirt somehow ended up on her dresser, my cut hanging over a chair.

As I dress, I catch her watching me—eyes tracking my movements in a way that tells me she wants me, bad.

I almost strip right back down and give her the most wild ten minutes of her life, but I know better.

I have to be cautious with her, because the last thing I want to do is push her away.

Instead, I lace up my boots, grab my phone, then lean over for one last kiss that nearly makes me jump back in her bed for a quickie before I go.

"Lock the door behind me," I tell her, forcing myself to be the President again rather than just a man leaving his woman's bed. "I'll text you."

The ride to the clubhouse gives me time to think, to shift gears from the man who held Tildie all night to the President who needs to handle a war I didn’t fucking start.

Finding our patch at the scene is intentional.

Someone did this.

Someone wants to cause an inferno of conflict between the clubs, and there's only one person with both the motivation and the knowledge—Striker.

The clubhouse parking lot is full when I arrive.

I find Bloodhound waiting for me at the main door, face grim. "Got something you need to see."

He leads me to his office, spreading photos across his desk. "These were taken at the Vultures' clubhouse two days ago."

The surveillance shots show three men entering the building—one of them Striker. "That's not the concerning part."

He points to another image, this one showing a corner of a Saint's Outlaws patch visible in someone's back pocket. "Striker knew about the warehouse raid before it happened. Knew the exact security rotation. Someone's been feeding him information on our operations, Prez. Has to be."

Only a handful of people have access to our security protocols—brothers, and prospects.

One of them is a traitor.

In the main area, voices rise and fall like waves—anger, confusion, accusations.

I roar, immediately causing the room to break out in silence. "Quiet!"

Everyone’s eyes turn to me, looking for direction, leadership. "Patches and officers, get your asses in church, now!"

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