Page 15

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tildie

The truck cab feels like a cage as I watch Ruger and his brothers disappear into the darkness.

I clutch the gun in my lap, oddly comforting.

Marco made sure I knew how to shoot—said a woman should know how to protect herself.

Ironic that I might use those skills against him.

"Nervous?" Kinsey asks from beside me, her voice hushed.

"Terrified," I admit, seeing no reason to lie. "But not in the way I used to be."

She nods, understanding in her eyes. "There's a difference between fear that paralyzes and fear that focuses."

"Exactly." I study her in the dim light. "How are you holding up? That's your father out there."

"Biology doesn't make someone a father." Her fingers trace the outline of her borrowed gun. "Viper is more of a father to me than Striker ever was, even after he came back into my life."

"Why did you stay with him? After you saw who he really was?"

She looks away, shame crossing her features. "I wanted to believe I was special. That he wouldn't hurt me the way he hurt others." Her bitter laugh cuts through the darkness. "Stupid, right?"

"Not stupid." I reach over, squeezing her hand briefly. "I stayed with Marco for three years. Made excuses for him. Believed him when he said he'd change."

"What made you finally leave?"

I hesitate, the memory still raw. "He pushed me down a flight of stairs when I was five months pregnant."

Her sharp intake of breath is the only sound for a few moments. "Jesus Christ."

"I lost the baby." The words come easier now than they ever have before. "That's when I knew he'd never change. That I'd die if I stayed."

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

"Me too." I glance toward the cabin, barely visible through the trees. "But tonight, it ends."

We fall silent, each lost in our own thoughts as we wait for Ruger's signal.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, and my stomach churns.

Then, my phone vibrates once.

A text from Ruger:

In position. Now.

My heart rate doubles instantly.

"That's the signal," I tell Kinsey, tucking the gun into my waistband where it's hidden but accessible. "Stay here unless something goes wrong."

She nods, hand tightening around her own weapon. "Be careful."

I step out of the truck, the cool night air sending a shiver down my spine.

The path to the cabin stretches before me, moonlight filtering through the trees to create patterns of light and shadow.

For seven months, I've been running from Marco.

Seven months of looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows, waking in cold sweats from nightmares where his hands are around my throat.

Tonight, I stop running.

Memories flash through my mind—the first time Marco hit me, the joy on his face when I told him I was pregnant, the sickening crack as my body tumbled down the stairs, the emptiness that followed.

I push them all away, focusing instead on more recent memories.

Ruger's hands, gentle even though he could break open a watermelon by snapping his fingers. Ellie's motherly protectiveness. The club rallying around me, a family I never expected to find.

The cabin grows larger as I approach, warm light spilling from its windows into the darkness.

Two vehicles parked outside—the black SUV and Marco's Mercedes.

The sight of that car, so familiar from our life in Pittsburgh, sends a jolt through my system.

I pause at the edge of the clearing, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

I know Ruger and his brothers are watching, positioned around the perimeter.

I'm not alone.

I’ll never be alone ever again.

I step into the open, deliberately making enough noise to be heard.

I'm halfway to the porch when the door swings open, and there he is.

Marco Santini stands framed in the doorway, his tall figure backlit by the cabin lights.

He looks exactly as I remember—expensively dressed even in casual clothes, dark hair perfectly styled, the posture of a man who's always in control.

His eyes widen when he sees me, something possessive lingering in those eyes. "Elizabeth," he breathes, using the name I abandoned when I fled. "You came back to me."

I stop several yards from the steps, maintaining distance. "I didn't come back to you, Marco. I came to end all this madness."

He steps onto the porch, and I fight the instinct to back away. "End what, baby? Our separation? I've been looking everywhere for you."

"I know." My voice comes out stronger than I expected. "You found me. Congratulations. Now you can move on with your life."

His expression darkens, the charming facade slipping. "Move on? After everything I've done to find you? After all the resources I've wasted?" He takes another step forward. "You belong to me. You always have."

"I don't belong to anyone." I stand my ground, aware of the gun pressed against my lower back. "I'm not yours, Marco. I never was."

"You're confused." His tone softens, switching tactics.

This is typical Marco—adapting to whatever he thinks will work. "Whatever these bikers have told you, whatever lies they've filled your head with?—"

"They didn't need to tell me anything. I already know exactly who you are." My heart pounds against my ribs, but my voice remains steady. "A controlling, abusive piece of shit who thinks he owns people."

His face contorts with rage for a split second before he masters it, smoothing his features into a concerned expression. "Baby, listen to yourself. This isn't you talking. You need help."

Okay, there we go, his typical gaslighting self.

"The only help I needed was getting away from you." I take a deliberate step forward, reclaiming the space between us. "And I did that. All on my own."

Movement behind him catches my eye—Striker emerging from the cabin, his face hardening when he spots me.

"So the whore decided to show up," he drawls, eyes scanning the darkness around us. "Alone?"

"She's not alone," Marco corrects him, gaze still fixed on me. "She wouldn't come out here without her biker boyfriend nearby."

Striker pulls a gun from his waistband. "Then we should invite them to join our little reunion."

My pulse quickens, but I maintain my composure.

This is part of the plan—draw them out, keep them talking, give Ruger and the others time to move into position.

"I made a mistake," I tell Marco, shifting his attention back to me. "Coming here tonight. I thought I needed to see you one last time, to tell you it's over. But looking at you now..." I shake my head. "You're pathetic."

His expression darkens. "Careful, Elizabeth."

"Or what? You'll push me down another flight of stairs? Kill another one of our babies?"

The words hang in the night air, sharp and painful.

Marco's face goes completely still. "That was an accident ."

"No. It wasn't." I meet his gaze without flinching. "You wanted to hurt me, to punish me for considering leaving you."

"I loved you," he insists, taking another step toward me. "I still do."

"This isn't love, Marco. It's possession. It's control." I stand firm, being the strongest version of myself. "And it's over."

His hand moves suddenly, reaching inside his jacket.

I tense, prepared to dive for cover, but instead of a gun, he pulls out a small jewelry box.

"I bought this the day after you left," he says, opening it to reveal a diamond ring that catches the moonlight. "I was going to propose. Make us a real family."

For a moment, I'm thrown off balance.

It's such a Marco move—using sentimentality as manipulation when threats don't work.

"There is no us," I say finally. "There never really was."

"Enough of this bullshit," Striker mutters, raising his gun. "She's here as bait. Her boyfriend and his crew are watching right now, waiting to make their move."

Marco's eyes narrow, shifting from me to the darkness surrounding us. "Is that true, Elizabeth? Did you lead them here?"

"Does it matter?" I ask, feeling like the situation is balancing on the edge of a cliff. "This ends tonight either way."

The air shifts, tension crackling like electricity before a storm.

Marco takes another step toward me, close enough now that I can smell his familiar cologne.

"You were always smarter than I gave you credit for," he says softly. "But not smart enough to stay away."

His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with bruising force.

I react instantly, muscle memory from self-defense classes I took while on the run.

I twist my body, breaking his grip while simultaneously reaching for the gun at my back.

Before I can draw it, chaos erupts.

Gunfire splits the night air. Striker dives back into the cabin while Marco tries to pull me with him, his fingers digging into my arm.

"Let go!" I wrench away, finally drawing my weapon and pointing it directly at his face.

He freezes, genuine surprise crossing his features. "You wouldn't."

"Try me," I hiss, backing away as figures emerge from the darkness—Ruger and Bloodhound approaching from one side, Maddox and Ounce from the other.

More gunfire from inside the cabin, followed by the sound of breaking glass.

Striker must be trying for a back exit.

"Drop it," Ruger orders, his gun trained on Marco.

Marco's eyes flick between us, calculating his options.

Slowly, deliberately, he raises his hands.

"This isn't over, Elizabeth," he says, gaze never leaving mine.

I keep my gun steady, finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Yes, it is."

I could do it. Could pull the trigger and end his life right now. After everything he's done—the fear, the pain, the baby I never got to hold—it would be justified.

But I hesitate.

Not from fear or weakness, but from the sudden realization that I don't need to kill him to be free of him.

His power over me is already gone.

"Ruger," I say quietly, "he's yours."

Understanding passes between us as Ruger moves forward, Bloodhound covering him.

Marco lunges suddenly, not toward me but toward Ruger, something metallic flashing in his hand—a knife I hadn't noticed.

Ruger side steps, but not quickly enough to avoid the blade completely.

It catches his arm, slicing through his cut and into flesh.

I react instinctively, firing a shot that grazes Marco's shoulder, throwing off his balance.

He stumbles, giving Ruger the opening to slam him to the ground.

"Bloodhound, check inside!" Ruger orders, pressing his knee into Marco's back while securing his wrists. "Maddox, with me. Ounce, find Striker!"

Blood seeps through Ruger's sleeve where the knife caught him, but his focus remains unbroken as he secures Marco.

A scream from behind the cabin draws everyone's attention.

Gunfire follows—two shots back to back.

"That sounded like—" I start.

"Kinsey," Ruger finishes, hauling Marco to his feet. "Maddox, watch this piece of shit. Tildie, with me."

We race around the side of the cabin, following the sounds of commotion.

In the moonlit clearing behind the structure, two figures struggle on the ground, and it takes me a moment to recognize them—Kinsey and Striker.

She's pinned beneath him, his hands around her throat, her face contorted as she fights for air.

Blood darkens his shirt near his shoulder, suggesting she managed to shoot him before he overpowered her.

"Get off her!" I shout, raising my gun again.

Striker's head whips toward me, his face twisted with rage. "You brought this on her," he snarls. "This is your fault."

Ruger approaches carefully, his own weapon trained on his uncle. "Let her go, Striker. It's over."

"Nothing's over until I say it is." Striker tightens his grip on Kinsey's throat, using her as a shield. "I'm walking out of here, nephew. Or your little traitor cousin dies right now."

Kinsey's eyes meet mine over her father's shoulder—she’s not giving up.

Her hand moves carefully toward her waistband where her gun must have fallen during the struggle.

"You're surrounded," Ruger says, voice deadly calm. "Let her go, and we talk about this."

"Talk? Like when you held church, when you turned my club against me?" Striker's laugh is harsh and bitter. "There's nothing to talk about."

I keep my gun trained on him, looking for a clear shot that won't risk hitting Kinsey.

"Mom was right about you," Kinsey chokes out, her voice strangled but audible. "Said you were... nothing but a... monster in a man's skin."

Striker's grip loosens slightly in surprise, giving Kinsey the opening she needs.

Her hand emerges from beneath her, not with a gun as I expected, but with a knife that glints in the moonlight.

She drives it upward like her life depends on it, burying it beneath Striker's chin.

Blood sprays as the blade severs arteries, coating Kinsey's face and chest in crimson.

Striker makes a horrible gurgling sound, his hands releasing her throat to clutch at the knife.

He rolls off her, body convulsing as blood pumps from the wound.

Kinsey scrambles away, gasping for air, her eyes wide with shock at what she's just done.

I reach her first, pulling her away from her dying father.

"I killed him," she whispers, staring at her blood-covered hands. "I actually killed him."

"You defended yourself," I correct her, grabbing her shoulders. "He was going to kill you, Kinsey."

Ruger approaches Striker, who lies motionless now, eyes staring off into the distance, but I already know he’s gone.

He checks for a pulse, then nods grimly. "He's gone."

Bloodhound appears from around the cabin. "Marco's secured. Place is clear." His eyes fall on Striker's body, then shift to Kinsey. "She did this?"

Ruger nods. "Self-defense. He was choking her."

Ounce joins us, taking in the scene with a low whistle. "That's one way to prove your loyalty to the club, kid."

Kinsey looks up, still trembling with adrenaline and shock. "I didn't do it for the club," she says quietly. "I did it because he deserved it."

"Fair enough." Ounce nods respectfully.

I hold Kinsey while she processes what's happened, her body shaking against mine.

She’s a tough woman, sure, but she’s barely an adult.

I know exactly how it feels to cross lines you never thought you would.

Ruger approaches, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah." I look up at him, remembering he was cut as blood drips down his arm. "You're hurt."

He shrugs, dismissing it. "Flesh wound. I’ve had worse."

His eyes shift to where Maddox brings a restrained Marco around the side of the cabin.

Marco's face contorts with rage when he sees me with Kinsey.

"You fucking bitch," he spits, straining against Maddox's grip. "After everything I did for you?—"

"Shut him up," Ruger orders coldly.

Maddox backhands the hell out of Marco, splitting Marco's lip and leaves him dazed.

"What do we do with him?" Bloodhound asks.

Ruger looks at me, almost like he’s weighing his options. "That's not something we need to deal with tonight. Take him back to the club, deal with him on our terms."

I nod, relief flooding through my chest.

None of this is over yet, but Marco's power is broken.

He's nothing now but a pathetic, angry man at the mercy of people who care about me.

The ride back to the club passes in a blur. Kinsey sits beside me in the truck, cleaned up as best we could with water from the cabin, but still speckled with her father's dried blood.

I hold her hand the entire way, neither of us speaking. What is there to say after everything that's happened tonight?

Ruger drives, checking his rearview mirror regularly to ensure the other vehicles—including Maddox's truck with Marco securely restrained in the back—stay with us.

As we approach the gates, Kinsey finally breaks the silence.

"What happens to me now?" she asks, voice barely audible.

I squeeze her hand. "That's up to you. But you're not alone, okay?"

She nods, but uncertainty lingers in her eyes.

The gates swing open, brothers standing guard with shotguns ready.

As we pull into the yard, I'm surprised to see the entire club gathered, waiting for our return.

We step out into a crowd of brothers, their expressions shifting from tension to relief when they see us relatively unharmed.

Ellie pushes through, pulling me into a fierce hug before doing the same to Kinsey, who stiffens in surprise before awkwardly returning the embrace.

"You're both okay," Ellie says, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank God."

"Striker?" someone asks.

"Dead," Ruger confirms, his voice carrying across the yard. "Kinsey killed him in self-defense when he tried to strangle her."

A murmur runs through the crowd, brothers studying Kinsey with new eyes—some suspicious, others respecting what she did.

Maddox's truck arrives, and the mood shifts as Marco is dragged out, still secured and now gagged as well.

Hatred burns in his eyes as he stares at me, but the fear underneath it makes me smile.

"I need an update on Sarah first," Ruger announces. "Then we handle our guests."

"She's stable," one of the brothers reports. "Porter's still with her. Doctor says she'll pull through."

Relief washes through me. One less death to carry tonight.

"Bloodhound, Ounce—take our guest to the basement," Ruger orders. "Make sure he's secure. Post guards. We’ll deal with him and Bailey tomorrow after everyone's had some rest."

As Marco is dragged away, I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders. Not completely gone—there's still the matter of what happens to him—but lighter than it's been in years.

Kinsey stands beside me, uncertain of her place in this aftermath.

The blood on her clothes has dried to a rusty brown, and exhaustion lines her face, making her look younger than her years.

"Come on," I tell her, taking her arm. "Let's get you cleaned up."

She nods gratefully, letting me lead her toward the clubhouse.

But for the first time since I fled Pittsburgh seven months ago, I think I can see an ending that isn't just more running.

An ending where Marco's shadow no longer follows me, where I'm free to be more than just a woman in hiding.

As Kinsey and I enter the clubhouse, brothers part to let us through, several nodding respectfully to her.

She's earned something tonight—if not trust, then at least a chance to prove herself.

Just like I did.

I help Kinsey wash her father's blood from her skin, both of us silent as the water runs red, then pink, then clear down the drain.

Tomorrow, Marco's fate will be decided and tomorrow, we'll begin to rebuild what Striker and Marco tried to destroy.

But for now, we've survived.