Page 67 of Ruger's Rage

I go on the other side and put my bags in too, sliding into the passenger seat.

Ruger starts up his bike and escorts us back to the club’s property, but the moment we get back, he heads off to go deal with what I can only assume is club business.

Once we’re settled in, Ellie and I sit on the small porch attached to Ruger's apartment, sharing beers.

The club is busy as ever—brothers coming and going, bikes rumbling in the distance, and for some reason, I think it might be because of what happened… the note on my car.

"Never thought I'd be back living on club property," Ellie says, staring into the distance. "Brings back memories."

"Good ones?"

"Some." She takes a long pull from her beer. "Before Striker changed, we had good times here. The club was family."

"What happened? Ruger mentioned drugs, but..."

"Meth." She says it plainly, without emotion. "Started using it to stay awake on long runs. Then to feel good. Then because he couldn't stop." She traces a faded scar on her forearm. "Made him paranoid. Violent. Convinced I was cheating, plotting against him."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I stayed too long, made excuses. Even after the first time he hit me." The admission hangs between us, raw. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

I nod, unable to deny the parallels. "How did you finally leave?"

"I guess I was tired of it." She smiles wryly. "I ran to Ryan—I think I knew he wouldn’t let me stay with Striker, and that made it a bit easier. He called church, forced a vote, and exiled his own uncle. Boy was twenty-nine years old, standing against a man he'd looked up to his whole life. A man that filled his father’s shoes when he passed."

The story fills in pieces of Ruger I'm still learning—his fierce protective instinct, the way he honors the club, his willingness to stand alone preparing for a war.

"Marco wasn't always violent either," I find myself saying. "He was charming, generous. Made me feel special when I was drowning in my father's gambling debts."

"They usually start that way."

"Yeah." I pick at the label on my beer bottle. "By the time I saw the real him, I was isolated. Cut off from family, friends. Just me and him."

"And the baby," she adds softly.

I stiffen, surprised. "Ruger told you?"

"No. Women recognize that particular grief in another woman." She reaches for my hand. "I lost one, too. Early on with Striker."

The simple admission, the shared pain, breaks something open inside me.

Before I realize what's happening, I'm sobbing—ugly, gasping cries I haven't allowed myself since the hospital.

Ellie pulls me into her arms, holding me like my mother used to before Marco came between us. "Let it out, honey. It's okay."

"I miss them," I choke out. "My family. I haven't called, haven't told them I'm okay. Marco threatened them if I went back."

"That's what men like him do. Isolate you from anyone who might help you see clearly." She strokes my hair as my tears gradually subside. "But you're not alone anymore, Tildie. You have me. You have Ruger. You have the club."

She’s right—I do have people now.

A new kind of family.

"He's going to come for me," I whisper. "The note makes that clear."

"Let him try." Ellie's voice hardens. "Striker thought he was untouchable too. Look where that got him."

"I'm scared," I admit. "Not just of Marco. Of all of this." I gesture toward the compound, the club, the new life I'm stepping into. "Of caring about Ruger. Of what happens when this is over, if it ever is."

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