Page 1 of Ruger's Rage

PROLOGUE

Ruger

Three Years Ago…

The pounding on my door jerks me from a restless sleep.

My hand automatically reaches for the Glock I keep under my pillow, muscle memory from years of living in a world where unexpected visitors rarely bring good news.

"Ryan! Open up, please..."

The voice is familiar but sounds wrong—too weak, too frightened to belong to the woman who helped raise me.

I'm on my feet and across the room in seconds, gun still in hand as I yank the door open.

What I see stops my heart.

My voice barely escapes my throat. "Aunt Ellie?"

My aunt stands in the dim glow of the porch light, but she's almost unrecognizable.

Her left eye is swollen shut, purple and bulging.

Blood trickles from a split in her bottom lip, dripping onto her white blouse that's now stained crimson red.

She's holding herself awkwardly, one arm wrapped around her ribs.

"Help me," she whispers, using my birth name. "Please, Ryan."

She sways, and I catch her before she falls, tucking the gun into my waistband.

Her body feels small in my arms, fragile in a way I've never associated with her.

Ellie has always been the strongest woman I know—the one who held me when my mother died, who taught me to ride a bike, who made sure I always had a home-cooked meal even when my father was on a run with the club.

I carry her inside, kicking the door shut behind me.

The rage building inside me is so white-hot I can barely see straight, but I force it down.

She needs me to be calm right now.

"Who did this to you?" I ask, but I already know.

There's only one man who could put fear like this in her eyes.

I place her gently on my couch, and she winces as her back touches the cushions.

That small sound of pain feeds the fury building inside me.

"Striker," she confirms, her voice breaking. "He... he found out I've been putting money aside. My own money, from my nursing shifts."

My uncle. My father's brother. The President of the Saint's Outlaws MC. My fucking mentor.

"I'm calling an ambulance," I say, reaching for my phone.

"No!" Her hand shoots out, surprisingly strong as she grabs my wrist. "No hospitals. They'll ask questions. The club?—"

"Fuck the club," I growl, but I know she's right.

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