Page 3 of Ruger's Rage

The hurt in my voice is undeniable. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She touches my face with trembling fingers. "You worship him, Ryan. He's your father's brother. The man who stepped up when your dad died. How could I take that from you?"

The truth of her words cuts deep.

Striker had been my hero after my father bled out on the clubhouse floor fourteen years ago.

He took me under his wing, taught me how to be a man, and promised me a place in the club when I turned eighteen.

All while using his fists on the woman who'd been more of a mother to me than anyone since mine died.

"This isn't the first time you've tried to leave," I realize aloud.

Ellie shakes her head slowly. "I tried once before. Last year. He found me at a motel outside of town." Her voice drops to a whisper. "He said if I ever tried to leave again, he'd finish the job."

Something cold and deadly settles in my chest.

"You need rest," I tell her, helping her lie down on the couch. "I'll get you some pain meds."

She grabs my wrist again. "What are you going to do?"

I force a reassuring smile. "Take care of you. That's all."

It's not a lie. Taking care of her means removing the threat. Permanently.

After she swallows the pills I bring her, I cover her with a blanket and wait until her breathing evens out in her sleep.

Then I pick up my phone and send a group text to the inner circle: Bloodhound, Ounce, Maddox. The men I trust with my life. With justice.

Emergency church. Now. No one else, just us. Tell no one.

While waiting for their responses, I change into jeans and a black t-shirt.

I strap on my shoulder holster, checking the clip in my Glock before sliding it home.

The weight of it against my ribs is comforting, like a tool I'm ready to use in a split second.

My phone buzzes with replies from all three men.

None of them have questions, just say they'll be there. These are the kind of men you truly need at your side in times like this.

I kneel beside Ellie, still sleeping on my couch.

Her face looks peaceful now that the pain meds have kicked in, though the bruises stand out starkly against her pale skin in the dim light.

"I'll make this right," I promise softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

I take pictures of the damage my uncle has done, not wanting to wake her.

I leave my place, the drive to the clubhouse taking fifteen minutes.

It's after midnight, and the compound is quiet except for the prospect on security duty who nods as I pull in.

I see Bloodhound's Harley already parked, along with Ounce's and Maddox's.

Church is our sanctuary, the place where club business is discussed behind closed doors.

Tonight, those doors will protect a different kind of business—the kind that will change the path of the Saint's Outlaws MC forever.

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