Page 11

CHAPTER TEN

Tildie

Back at the club, I pace the floor of the main room, the conversation with Striker replaying in my mind like a horror movie I can't turn off.

The way he looked at me. The mention of my real name. The message from Marco.

Tell your pretty bartender that her ex sends his regards. Says he's looking forward to their reunion.

A shudder ripples through me.

Now, seven months of running, of rebuilding, of thinking I might have escaped—all shattered in one sentence.

"Stop wearing a hole in the floor," Ellie says, perched on the edge of the couch. "He can't hurt you here."

"Can't he?" I turn to face her. "He found me, Ellie. Found my real name, my job, my relationship with Ruger."

"And now you're surrounded by an entire motorcycle club that would die to protect you." She pats the cushion beside her. "Come sit. Driving yourself crazy won't help."

She's right, but the restless energy coursing through me makes sitting impossible. "I just hate feeling helpless again. Waiting for men to decide my fate."

"You think that's what's happening?" Ellie raises an eyebrow. "Because from where I sit, you've made your own choices. Choosing to stay. Choosing Ruger. Choosing to face this instead of running again."

Her words sink in, a counter to the panic threatening to overtake me.

I'm about to respond when the door swings open.

Ruger enters, his expression hardened, and undeniable rage right under the edge.

Bloodhound follows, his usual stoic expression replaced with something darker.

I don’t give either of them time to say a word. "What did you find out?"

Ruger exchanges a look with Bloodhound, something passing between them—almost like a question about how much to share.

"Don’t you dare keep anything from me," I press. "You promised to keep me in the loop."

His jaw tightens, but he nods. "Rookie's been compromised. Not intentionally, but the damage is done."

"By who?"

"A girl he's been seeing at college. Kinsey." His eyes meet mine. "She's Striker's daughter."

The bomb drops. "You have a cousin?"

"Technically. Never knew she existed until tonight." Ruger runs a hand through his beard. "Her mother was some clubwhore named Raven from Pittsburgh. Striker reconnected with them after his exile."

Ruger looks right at his Aunt Ellie. "I take it you didn't know about her either."

Ellie shakes her head. "Not for certain, but I thought he had some bastard kids out there somewhere."

"I have to admit, this was the perfect setup," Bloodhound interjects. "College girl seduces naive prospect, gets club intel straight from the source."

"Rookie had no idea who she really was," Ruger continues. "Just thought he was getting laid regularly by some nosey engineering student."

"Until recently," Bloodhound adds. "Girl started getting sloppy, mentioned her 'dad' appreciating the intel. Kid confronted her yesterday, found out the truth."

I process this, connecting the dots. "So Striker's been playing both sides? Using information from Rookie to hit the Vultures, then making it look like you did it?"

Ruger gives me an appraising look. "Smart and beautiful. What a dangerous combination, Darlin’."

"I'm not just a pretty face." The retort comes automatically, a defense mechanism I developed over the years from being underestimated. "What's the plan now?"

Again, there’s that look between them—surprise that I'm expecting to be included in the conversation.

"We're calling an emergency meeting with the Vultures' leadership," Ruger explains after a moment. "Showing our evidence that Striker's manipulating both clubs."

"Will they believe you?"

"They might not," Bloodhound says. "But the alternative is war. Neither side wants that right now."

"And Marco?"

Ruger's expression darkens. "That's a separate problem, but connected. We've got confirmation he's in town, staying at some luxury hotel in the center of Morgantown. The club will deal with the Vultures, and then I’ll personally deal with Marco. Okay?"

My stomach drops. "How do you know he’s in town?"

"We have eyes and ears everywhere, darlin'." He steps closer, hands coming to rest on my shoulders. "We'll handle him. But I need you to stay put for now."

"Will you at least tell me the plan?"

"When there is one." His honesty is both frustrating and appreciated. "Right now, we're gathering intel, figuring out his patterns."

"I should get some sleep," Ellie announces, standing abruptly. "It’s been a long night."

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."

"You know why." 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.

His thumbs brush across my nipples, drawing them to tight peaks before he lowers his head.

His mouth closes over one areola, the dusky pink circle nearly too large for him to take in completely.

The sensation of his hot tongue against me pulls a moan from deep in my throat.

My jeans are next, his hands lingering over the curve of my hips as he slides them down my legs.

He kneels before me, helping me step out of them, looking up at me with such pure desire I feel my knees weaken.

"I dreamt about doin’ this every damn day," he admits, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh. "About unwrapping you, about worshipping every inch of these curves."

When we're finally naked, skin to skin, he lays me gently on the bed, his body covering mine.

The weight of him should feel threatening—should trigger memories of being pinned down, controlled—but instead, I feel sheltered, safe.

"Tell me if anything's too much," he says, his voice rough with restraint.

"I will."

His mouth explores my body with so much attention, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me arch into his touch.

It’s different than any other time we’ve had sex—because this isn’t just sex—it’s making love.

When his tongue finds the sensitive bundle of nerves between my thighs, stars explode behind my eyelids.

His strong hands grip my thighs, spreading me wide as he devours me like a starved man.

Each stroke of his tongue sends fire shooting through my body, building a pressure I couldn’t even dream about feeling.

"Fuck, you taste so sweet," he groans against my pussy, the vibration of his voice adding another layer to the sensation.

I thread my fingers on the back of his head, holding him to me as my hips rock against his mouth.

His tongue circles my clit before flicking across it with perfect pressure, drawing a desperate whimper from my lips.

"Please," I gasp, not even sure what I'm begging for.

Ruger seems to know.

His thick finger slides inside me, curling to find that spot that makes my back arch off the bed.

When he adds a second finger, stretching me deliciously, I nearly lose my mind.

"That's it, darlin'," he murmurs, his steel blue eyes watching my face as he works his fingers in rhythm with his tongue. "Let me see you come."

The assault of his mouth and fingers pushes me over the edge.

My release crashes through me, walls clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure radiate through my entire body.

He doesn't stop, drawing out every last tremor until I'm gasping his name, tugging at his head to pull him up.

He rises above me, lips glistening with my essence.

I pull him down for a kiss, tasting myself on his tongue as his hard cock presses against my thigh.

"I need you inside me," I whisper against his mouth. "Now."

"Turn over," he commands softly, helping me roll onto my stomach.

His large hands slide beneath me, lifting my hips into the air as he positions himself behind me. "I want to feel every inch of you."

The vulnerability of the position should make me nervous, but with Ruger, I only feel more craved, more desired.

I feel him at my entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my slick folds.

"You're so fuckin’ beautiful like this," he murmurs, his hands caressing the curve of my ass, the dip of my waist. "Spread out for me, wet and ready."

He enters me with one slow, steady thrust, filling me so completely I can't hold back a cry of pleasure.

He stills, giving me time to adjust to his size.

"You okay?" His voice is strained, muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.

"Yes," I gasp, pushing back against him. "God, yes. Don't stop."

His grip tightens on my hips as he begins to move, each thrust deeper than the last.

The angle allows him to hit places inside me I didn't know existed, sending sparks of pleasure up my spine with every movement.

"So tight," he groans, one hand sliding around to find my clit. "So fuckin’ perfect for me."

His fingers work in rhythm with his thrusts, building the tension inside me once more.

I bury my face in the pillow, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation.

"No," he says, his hand tangling in my hair, gently turning my head. "I want to hear you. Every sound, every breath."

His words break something open inside me.

I stop holding back, letting moans and pleas fall freely from my lips as he drives into me with increasing intensity.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice rough with desire. "Let me hear how good I make you feel."

The coil of pleasure winds tighter with each thrust, each circle of his fingers.

When he leans over me, his chest against my back, teeth grazing my shoulder, I nearly come undone.

"Not yet," he commands, somehow sensing how close I am. "Not until I say so."

He pulls out suddenly, leaving me empty and aching.

Before I can protest, he flips me onto my back, settling between my thighs once more.

"Like this," he says, his eyes locked on mine as he slides home again. "I need to see your face when you come for me."

The fullness, the connection, the weight of him above me—it's almost too much.

He hooks one of my legs over his arm, opening me wider, driving deeper with each thrust.

"Ruger," I gasp, feeling the edge approaching rapidly. "I can't—I need?—"

"I know what you need." His thumb returns to my clit, circling with just the right pressure. "Come for me, Tildie. Now!"

His command breaks the dam.

My orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, more powerful than anything I've ever experienced.

My walls clench around him, pulling him deeper as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me.

"Fuck," he growls, his rhythm faltering as my body milks him. "I'm gonna come inside you, fill you up?—"

The raw possessiveness in his voice sends another shock of pleasure through me.

I wrap my legs around his waist, holding him to me.

"Yes," I urge. "Inside me. Please."

His hips slam against mine, a primal sound tearing from his throat as he empties himself deep inside me.

I feel each pulse, each throb, as his release triggers aftershocks of my own.

He collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest as we both struggle to catch our breath.

His hand traces lazy patterns on my skin, unwilling to break contact even as our heartbeats slow.

"Holy shit," he murmurs against my hair. "That was?—"

"Yeah," I agree, too dazed to form an actual sentence. "It was."

We lie tangled together, his release warm between my thighs, a physical reminder of our connection, of what we do to each other.

"I've never..." he starts, then trails off.

I turn to look at him. "Never what?"

"Felt like this," he admits, vulnerability flashing across his face. "Like I'd burn the whole world down just to keep you safe. Like nothing matters but this —us."

The confession steals my breath.

In Marco's world, sex was about control, about ownership.

With Ruger, it feels like a connection, like finding home in another person's arms.

He pulls me closer against his chest, one hand stroking my hair as our breathing gradually slows.

The silence between us feels comfortable, weighted with unspoken emotion.

"Who are we kidding, Tildie?" he says suddenly, his voice rumbling against my ear. "Just be my ol' lady. You're already here in every other sense, and I want you in my life for as long as you want to be in it."

The request—so straightforward, so Ruger—makes me laugh. "Is that how you usually ask women to be in a relationship? 'Who are we kidding?'"

A smile tugs at his lips. "Nothing about us is usual, darlin'."

He's right.

"Your ol' lady," I repeat, testing how the words feel. "What does that even mean, really?"

"It means you're mine. I'm yours. Officially. In the club, outside the club." His eyes search mine. "It means no one touches what's mine without consequences."

"I'm not property, Ruger." The words come automatically, a defense against old fears.

"Never said you were." His hand traces patterns on my bare shoulder. "Being my ol' lady isn't about ownership. It's about protection, partnership, standin’ together against whatever comes."

Put that way, it sounds less like the cage I've feared and more like the shelter I've always craved.

"Yes," I say finally. "I'll be your ol' lady."

His smile transforms his face, years falling away to reveal the man beneath the President's patch.

He kisses me passionately, mumbling against my lips, "You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me."

We lay in silence afterward, his heartbeat steady under my ear, until a question that's been nagging at me finally surfaces.

"Do you think..." I hesitate, uncertain how to phrase it. "Would it be crazy for me to try to contact my family?"

He shifts to look at me. "Your parents and brothers?"

"Yeah. Marco threatened them if I tried to reach out. Said he'd hurt them if they helped me." The memory still burns. "But it's been too long, and I miss them so much."

"It's not crazy at all." His voice is gentle but firm. "They're your family. They probably think the worst has happened."

Guilt twists in my gut. "Marco was watching them for a while after I left. What if he still is? What if contacting them puts them in danger?"

"We can arrange protection. Get brothers from an ally charter near Pittsburgh to keep eyes on them." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You wouldn't be doing this alone, Tildie. I'd be with you every step of the way."

The promise opens something inside me—hope I haven't allowed myself to feel since running from Pittsburgh.

"Maybe a phone call first," I suggest. "Just to hear their voices, let them know I'm alive."

"Whatever you want to do, I'm behind you." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "That's what being my ol' lady means."

I burrow closer into his warmth, marveling at how different love really is.

It’s nothing like what I felt for Marco.

This is real… real fucking love.

Before I know it, it’s the next morning, and we’re still entwined, sunlight streaming through curtains I forgot to close.

Ruger sleeps soundly beside me, his face relaxed in a way it never is when he's awake.

I slip from bed carefully, pulling on his discarded t-shirt before padding to the kitchen for coffee.

The club is already buzzing with activity outside, brothers coming and going, bikes rumbling in the distance.

Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Rookie being escorted across the yard by Maddox, head down, shoulders slumped.

Despite everything, I feel a pang of sympathy for the kid.

Manipulated by a woman he thought cared about him—it's a pain I understand too well.

The coffee just finished brewing when I noticed her .

A woman on a sleek black motorcycle, parked just beyond the gate.

She's not trying to hide—in fact, she seems to be deliberately positioning herself to be seen, her helmet resting on the tank as she studies the club.

Dark hair, designer sunglasses, the confident posture of someone who knows exactly what they're doing.

Bloodhound appears at my side so suddenly I nearly spill my coffee.

"Something wrong?" he asks, following my gaze.

"That woman on the bike outside. She's been watching the club for at least ten minutes."

His body immediately tenses, hand moving to the gun at his waist. "Stay inside."

I follow him onto the porch, ignoring his instructions.

He scans the perimeter before his eyes lock on the figure I indicated. "Prospect!" he barks at Rookie, who's still in the yard. "Who the fuck is that?"

Rookie looks up, squinting toward the gate.

His face drains of color. "That's Kinsey."

The name sends a jolt through me.

Striker's daughter.

The woman who manipulated Rookie, who's been feeding information about the club—about me—to the man working with my ex.

She's prettier than I expected.

College girl with an edge of biker princess, expensive clothes that hint at daddy's money—daddy's blood money.

"What's she doing here?" I ask, afraid of the answer.

"Nothing good," Bloodhound mutters, already signaling to brothers positioned around the yard.

Ounce appears from the clubhouse, taking in the situation with a quick glance.

To my shock, he gives a curt nod. "We're letting her in. Someone get Ruger, now!"

"Are you fuckin’ insane?" Bloodhound challenges. "She's Striker's eyes and ears."

"Exactly," Ounce counters. "And now she's here alone, without backup. Perfect opportunity to get information straight from the source."

The gates begin to open, brothers taking strategic positions around the yard.

Kinsey revs her engine once, riding slowly onto the club’s property.