Page 77 of Ruger's Rage

I recognize what she’s doing, giving us some much needed privacy after the day.

After she leaves, closing the door behind her with a soft click, the tension in the room shifts.

The main hall suddenly feels too exposed, brothers still filtering through after the night's events, curious eyes tracking our movements.

It’s like Ruger can sense I’m on edge too, his hand finding the small of my back.

"Let's head back to our place," he says quietly.

The casual way he says 'our place' sends a flutter through my chest I think should feel wrong, but it feels so good.

He guides me through the clubhouse, nodding at brothers as we pass, his posture protective without being possessive.

The walk to his—our—place at the back of the compound feels longer tonight.

When he unlocks the door and ushers me inside, the familiar space feels like a sanctuary after the chaos at Backroads.

As the door closes behind us, sealing out the world, silence stretches between us for a few moments. "You okay?"

"No." Honesty seems the only option. "But I'm dealing with it."

He studies me, those steel blue eyes seeing more than I want them to. "You're scared. But not running."

"No point in running. Seems like Marco would just find me again."

"That's not why you're staying." He steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my cheek. "Is it?"

The tenderness in his touch undoes me. "No, it’s not."

"Tell me."

"Youknowwhy." The admission slips out, my invisible walls practically gone at this point. "You terrify me, Ruger. Just... not in the way Marco did."

He licks his bottom lip, his voice coming out softer. "I scare you because you're falling for me."

"Yes." The single word feels like jumping off a cliff.

His mouth crashes into mine, the gentleness gone, replaced by raw hunger.

"You sure about this?"

"Yes," I breathe. "I'm so fucking sure."

My fingers slide beneath his cut, pushing it off his broad shoulders.

It lands with a soft thud on the floor, the weight of his responsibilities gone.

His eyes never leave mine as I work at the buttons of his shirt, hands trembling slightly.

"Your turn," he murmurs, fingers finding the hem of my blouse.

He lifts it slowly, savoring each inch of my skin as it’s revealed.

When it joins his clothes on the floor, his breath catches.

"Christ, Tildie," he whispers, his large hands sliding up my ribcage to cup my breasts. They overflow his palms, too lush to be contained. "You're fuckin’ perfect."

The sultriness in his voice makes me believe him.

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