Page 58 of Ruger's Rage

As if reading my thoughts, Bloodhound appears in my doorway. "Prospect at the gate says your girl just pulled in."

My girl.

The simple phrase shouldn't make my chest tighten like that. "Thanks. Send her to my apartment when she gets in."

He nods, no judgment in his expression. "I'll handle things here. We got this."

I clap his shoulder as I pass. "Keep Ounce with you. I want his eyes on those security feeds."

My private apartment sits at the back of the compound—separate from the main clubhouse, accessible only through a hallway with reinforced doors and security cameras.

It's the safest place on the property, originally designed for club presidents with families.

I'm closing the door to my office when I spot Tildie being escorted through the main hall by Maddox.

She looks small beside his towering frame, but not intimidated.

Her chin's up, shoulders back, even as her eyes dart nervously around the unfamiliar space.

Pride surges through me at her courage.

Another woman might have run after yesterday's scare at the bar. Not Tildie.

"Thanks, Maddox," I say, approaching them. "I'll take it from here."

His eyes flick between us, a ghost of a smile touching his usually stern face. "She's all yours, Prez." He nods to Tildie. "Ma'am."

I can see her fighting a smile at the formal address. "Thanks for the escort. Did they put you on babysitting duty?"

"Protection detail," he corrects without missing a beat. "President's orders."

As he walks away, Tildie turns to me, one eyebrow raised. "President's orders, huh?"

"Can't be too careful." I reach for her hand, relieved when she doesn't pull away. "Come on. Place is a madhouse tonight. My place is quieter."

She follows me through the compound, taking in the war room we've set up—maps covering walls, brothers hunched over laptops, security feeds from various properties displayed on monitors.

"This is serious," she observes, voice low.

"Yeah." No point sugarcoating it. "Striker's making moves. We need to be ready."

In my apartment, she relaxes slightly.

The space is separate from the chaos—a living area with a worn leather couch, kitchenette, bedroom visible through an open door.

It's not fancy, but it's mine.

"Drink?" I offer, heading to the fridge.

"Water's fine."

I grab two bottles, handing her one before settling beside her on the couch.

For a moment, we sit in silence, the events of last night and today hanging between us.

"You're different here," she says finally. "More... president, less Ruger."

The observation surprises me. "Different how?"

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