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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.

A hospital visit means police reports, questions neither of us can answer without consequences we'll have to deal with later.

"Just help me clean up," she says, attempting a smile that turns into a grimace with any slight movement. "I've had worse."

Those three words practically slap me across the face.

Worse?

How long has this been happening?

How many times has she covered bruises with makeup or blamed injuries on clumsiness?

How many times have I looked the other way, ignored the signs?

I go to the kitchen, filling a bowl with warm water, grabbing a clean towel and the first aid kit I keep stocked for club business.

When I return, Ellie has managed to sit up straighter, but her breathing is shallow, painful.

I place the supplies down. "Let me see your ribs."

She hesitates, then slowly unbuttons her blouse.

The bruising across her torso makes me swallow bile.

Dark purple marks riddle her skin—some fresh, some yellowing with age.

This isn't the first time. Not even close.

"Jesus Christ, Ellie," I whisper.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she lies, the kind of lie that's meant to protect me rather than herself.

I dip the towel in water and begin cleaning the blood from her face, trying to keep my hands as steady as possible.

The gentleness of my movements contrasts with the violent thoughts filling my mind—images of what I'll do to my uncle Striker when I get my hands on him.

"This is the last time," I promise her, my voice low and deadly serious. "He's never going to touch you again."

Fear flashes across her face. "No, Ryan. You can't... he's the President. Your uncle. He'd kill you."

The coldness in my voice makes her flinch. "Let him try."

I finish cleaning the cut on her lip, applying butterfly bandages to the deepest part.

We both know she probably needs stitches, but we aren't going to put ourselves in that position.

"How long?" I finally ask the question that's been burning inside me. "How long has he been hurting you?"

She looks away, ashamed, as if the violence done to her body is somehow her fault.

That's what makes my blood boil the most—that he's made her believe she deserves this.

"It started about three years ago," she admits quietly. "After that run to Nevada when things went bad with the Devils. He came back different. Angrier."

Three years.

Three fucking years while I patched in, became his VP, sat at his right hand at the table.

Three years of Sunday dinners at their house, where she served us with sunglasses indoors or long sleeves in the summer heat.

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.

My three brothers are waiting around the redwood table, their expressions grave.

They know something serious has gone down. They just don't know what.

I motion for my brothers to follow me, and we head into church.

Before anyone has sat down, I pull up my phone and show them the damage.

Bloodhound is the first to break the silence, his normally stoic expression cracking as he takes in Aunt Ellie's battered face.

His voice is deadly quiet. "Who?"

I meet his gaze steadily. "Striker."

It’s almost like the entire room goes even quieter, everyone processing this information.

Accusing the President is a death sentence in most MCs.

But our club—the Saint's Outlaws—we pride ourselves by having a code: you don't fuck with your women.

Some clubs turn a blind eye, but not ours.

"She's been the mother of this club for twenty years," I say, my voice carrying in the silence. "She bandaged your wounds, fed you when you were broke, bailed you out of jail." I pause, letting the words sink in. "And this is how he repays her."

Maddox, our enforcer, grunts, clearly furious.

He's a mountain of a man, covered in tattoos that tell the story of a violent life, but he's the most gentle among us. "This wasn't the first time."

It's not a question, and no one argues with him.

We all know it wasn't the first time.

I clear my throat. "You know her. She didn't want to cause any trouble."

"She's family," Ounce says firmly. He's a man of few words, but when he speaks, everyone listens. "Family doesn't do this to family."

"I'm calling church," I announce. "I want everyone here. A full fucking table in one hour."

Maddox looks up sharply. "That means Striker will be here too."

"I'm counting on it."

What I'm proposing is nothing short of a coup—a direct challenge to my uncle's patch.

It's the kind of move that starts wars between charters, the kind of shit that usually gets men killed.

Bloodhound warns. "He'll fight this."

"Let him."

The next hour passes in a blur and I get a text from Aunt Ellie.

I know where you are, and God knows what you're up to. I'll be at the clubhouse in fifteen minutes.

As much as I want her to stay at my place, I understand why she wants to do this.

She wants to face my uncle herself, with the backing of the club behind her.

She arrives and comes up to me, wrapping me in a big hug, and doesn't say a word.

The only thing she does is look straight at me and I know what that means.

It means I'd better not argue with her.

This woman has survived her first husband's death and raised a child that wasn't her own while building a nursing career.

The things my uncle has done won't ever diminish the steel in her spine.

By one in the morning, church is filled with every patched member.

Confusion riddles everyone's faces when they see Aunt Ellie sitting beside me, her injuries impossible to hide.

My uncle Striker is the last to arrive, striding in like he owns the place—which, technically, he does.

He freezes when he sees his wife.

His eyes dart from Ellie to me. "What the fuck is this?"

"Church," I reply calmly, standing at the head of the table where the VP's place is. "Take your seat, Prez."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes, but he complies, settling into his chair at the table's head.

The way he ignores my aunt Ellie's presence tells me everything I need to know about the man I once idolized.

"Brothers," I begin, looking around the table at the men who have become my family. "I've called this emergency meeting because we have a situation that can't wait until morning. A direct violation of our most sacred code."

Striker's jaw tightens.

He knows what's coming.

"Our code says we protect our women. Our code says we honor family." I gesture toward Ellie. "Look at what was done to her tonight. Look at what's been done to her for years while we all looked the other way."

"This is my business," Striker interrupts, his voice cold. "Not for an open forum."

"When it's your wife, my aunt, sitting here with broken ribs and a face that barely looks human anymore, it becomes everyone's fuckin' business," I counter.

The room falls silent again, the tension thick enough to choke on.

"You making accusations, VP?" Striker asks, emphasizing my rank as a reminder of his authority over me.

"I'm not accusing anyone," I say. "Ellie is."

All eyes turn to her.

She straightens in her chair, wincing at the pain the movement causes, but her voice is steady when she speaks.

"For three years, he's been using me as a punching bag whenever things go wrong with the club, whenever he drinks too much, whenever the mood strikes him." Her words are simple, matter of fact. "Tonight wasn't even the worst. Tonight was just the night I finally ran."

The expressions around the table range from shock to fury.

Striker isn't even bothered in the least bit. It's as if this isn't bad, like it's something that should be happening.

"My ol' lady, my business," he says dismissively. "Club matters stay at the table. Family matters stay at home."

A few of the older members nod, ingrained in the traditional ways of the MC world where women are possessions more than partners.

But I see the younger ones shifting uncomfortably, the world changing around them in ways the old bucks refuse to acknowledge.

"Then let's put it to a vote," I suggest, playing my hand. "Club code says no brother raises a hand to a woman. Club code says we protect our own." I look around the table. "Is Ellie one of our own? Or is she just property to be used and discarded?"

"Watch yourself, nephew," Striker warns, but I can see the first flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

He's realizing this isn't just a family dispute I've aired—it's an overdue challenge to his leadership.

"I move to vote on stripping Striker's patch for violation of club code," I say formally.

"Second," Bloodhound says immediately.

Striker laughs, but it's hollow. "You think you can take my patch? I built this club. I made all of you."

"And you've been destroying it piece by piece," I counter. "The deals with the Grim Vultures that line your pockets while our brothers take risks. The shipments that go missing. The alliances you've broken on a whim." I lean forward. "We've looked the other way because you're our President. But there's a line, and you crossed it when you put your hands on her."

His facade cracks just enough to reveal the rage beneath. "You ungrateful little shit. I made you. I picked you up when your father died and gave you a future."

"And I'm grateful," I tell him honestly. "But that doesn't excuse what you've done."

"Vote," calls Ounce, bringing us back to procedure.

Striker's eyes scan the table, looking for allies, calculating his chances. I can see him weighing his options—to fight this vote or to try another tactic.

"All in favor of stripping the President's patch for violation of club code, raise your hand," I say.

Bloodhound's hand goes up first, followed quickly by Ounce and Maddox. Then, one by one, every hand around the table rises except for two—Striker's oldest friends who sit with their arms stubbornly crossed.

The vote is clear.

"It's done," I announce, meeting Striker's gaze across the table.

For a moment, he just stares at me, disbelief warring with fury in his eyes.

Then his hand moves—not to his cut to remove his patches as tradition demands, but to his waistband where I know he carries a 9mm.

"You want my patch?" he snarls. "Come and take it."

Everything happens in slow motion after that.

The gun appears in his hand, pointing not at me but at Ellie.

I lunge across the table as the shot rings out, a burning pain tearing through my shoulder as I tackle him to the ground.

We crash into the floor, his gun skittering away as Bloodhound moves to kick it out of reach.

But Striker fights like a cornered animal, landing a punch to my wounded shoulder that makes my vision blur with pain.

He's older but still strong, fueled by decades of violence and the desperation of a man who's lost everything in a single night.

We trade blows, rolling across the chapel floor while the rest of the club forms a circle around us, honoring the unspoken rule that leadership challenges are settled man to man.

I feel something warm and wet running down my arm—blood from the bullet graze—but the pain only fuels my rage.

Every blow I land is for Ellie, for the years she suffered in silence, for my own blindness in not seeing what was happening right under my nose.

"I should have finished her tonight," Striker spits as we grapple. "Put her in the ground where she belongs."

His words unlock something primal in me. With a roar that barely sounds human, I slam him to the ground, my hands finding his throat. I squeeze, watching his eyes bulge, his face turning red as he struggles for air.

"Ryan, stop!"

Ellie's voice breaks through the haze of violence.

I look up to see her standing over us, her injured face streaked with fresh tears.

"Don't become him," she pleads. "Don't let him make you a killer."

My grip loosens, just enough for Striker to drag in a rasping breath.

But before he can speak, Bloodhound is there, pressing a gun to his temple.

"The vote stands," Bloodhound says coldly. "Your patch. Now."

With my knee still on his chest, I watch as Striker's hands move to his cut, slowly removing the President patch and the Saint's Outlaws rocker beneath it.

His hands are shaking with rage, but he knows when he's beaten.

"You're exiled," I tell him, my voice steady even with all of the adrenaline still coursing through me. "You leave town tonight. If I ever see your face again, I'll finish what we started here."

Maddox and Ounce haul him to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine as they drag him toward the door.

"This isn't over, nephew," he promises, his voice raw from my attack. "You'll regret the day you turned on your own blood."

"You stopped being my blood the first time you raised a hand to her," I reply.

After they escort him out, silence falls over church.

I'm aware of blood staining my shirt, of the throbbing pain in my shoulder, but none of it matters as I turn to Ellie.

"It's done," I tell her.

She nods, tears still streaming down her face, but there's something else there too—a relief so profound it makes her look years younger.

"What now?" someone asks from the table.

What now indeed? With Striker gone, the club needs leadership, stability.

"We need a President," Ounce says, his gaze fixed firmly on me.

"I nominate Ruger for President," Bloodhound calls out, using my road name for the first time since this began.

"Second," Maddox adds immediately.

The vote is as unanimous as the one that stripped Striker of his patch.

Just like that, at twenty-nine years old, I find myself the President of the Saint's Outlaws MC: Morgantown charter.

The youngest in our history.

As members come forward to congratulate me, to pledge their loyalty, I find my gaze returning to Ellie.

She's sitting again, exhaustion evident in every line of her body, but there's pride in her eyes as she watches me.

I kneel beside her chair. "I'm getting you to a doctor."

She doesn't argue this time, just nods wearily. "It's really over?"

"It's over," I promise, though I know it's not entirely true.

The ripples from tonight will spread far and wide.

Striker has friends in other chapters, allies in rival clubs.

The Grim Vultures will see our change in leadership as an opportunity.

There will be challenges to face, territory to defend, respect to earn.

But for now, at this moment, what matters is that she's safe. What matters is breaking the cycle of violence that's been festering in our club for too long.

As I help her to her feet, preparing to take her to the private doctor who handles club business without raising a single question, I make a silent vow to myself and to her: I will be a different kind of President.

I will rebuild this club on a foundation of true brotherhood, of loyalty that goes beyond patches and cuts.

And I will never, ever look the other way again when someone I love is suffering.