Page 72 of Ruger's Rage

Her body melts against me, all hesitation gone as she kisses me back.

When we part, her eyes are dark with desire. "Take me home after this?"

"Oh, you’d best count on it, Darlin’."

We continue swaying to the music, my thumb tracing circles on the small of her back.

The song's almost over when I feel it—the slight shift in the room's energy, the tightening of Bloodhound's posture across the bar, the sudden tension radiating through nearby brothers.

My eyes find the door just as he walks in—Striker.

He hasn't changed much in three years.

Still carries himself with the arrogance of someone who believes he's untouchable.

Hair grayer, face harder, but unmistakably my uncle.

He's flanked by two men wearing Grim Vultures cuts, both scanning the room with a predatory focus.

"Stay here," I murmur to Tildie, my body already positioned between her and the door.

Her fingers tighten on my arm. "Ruger?"

"It's him. My uncle." I kiss her forehead quickly. "Stay with Ellie."

I move through the crowd, brothers parting to let me pass, hands instinctively moving toward concealed weapons.

"No blood in the bar," I remind them as I pass. "Neutral ground."

Striker spots me, a slow smile spreading across his weathered face. "Nephew. Quite the party you’ve thrown, and I didn’t even get an invite,tsk."

"Why the fuck would I invite you?" I stop a few feet from him, Bloodhound’s at my side, Ounce flanking my other shoulder.

"Yeah, I heard there was a change in ownership." Striker looks around with exaggerated interest. "Thought I'd come to congratulate the new proprietor. Still neutral ground protocol, right? No blood spilled at Backroads?"

"Rule still stands," I acknowledge. "What do you want, Striker?"

"Just to talk." He gestures to his companions. "Friends of mine. Havoc and Ditch from the Grim Vultures."

The two men nod, their stance relaxed but alert—seasoned enough to know posturing gets you nowhere in these situations.

"Heard someone hit your Amity clubhouse," I say, cutting to the chase. "Left our mark behind."

"Convenient timing, wasn't it?" Striker's eyes narrow. "Right when I was starting to build bridges between our clubs."

"It wasn't us." I hold his gaze. "You know that."

"Do I?" He steps closer, voice dropping. "Three years is a long time to hold a grudge, nephew. Long enough to plan something elaborate."

"If I wanted to hit you, I wouldn't be subtle about it."

A genuine laugh escapes him. "No, you never were one for subtlety. Must be why you're dancing with that pretty bartender in front of everyone. What's her name? Tildie, is it?"

Ice forms in my gut at the mention of her name. "What's your point?"

"Just making conversation." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Interesting choice. Not your usual type. Then again, she's not using her usual name either, is she?"

The confirmation that he knows about Tildie—knows about Elizabeth—sends fury coursing through me. "You're walkin’ a dangerous line, old man."

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