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CHAPTER SIX

Tildie

The morning after the club dinner, I wake with my skin still tingling from Ruger's touch.

My fingers trace my lips where his beard scraped against them, remembering how he'd backed me against the porch railing, his hands exploring my curves.

I’ve never had a man make me feel so alive, so cherished, so… desired.

"One day at a time," I whisper to myself, the promise we'd made under the stars.

But stepping into my morning shift at Backroads, I wonder if I've already gone too far, too fast.

Letting him kiss me is one thing. Letting him into my life is another risk entirely.

"Morning, sunshine," Ellie greets me, already flipping pancakes on the grill. "Sleep well?"

The knowing look in her eyes tells me she noticed our absence on the porch last night. "Yeah, fine I guess."

"Just fine? That's not what your face says."

I ignore her, grabbing my apron and focusing on the coffee machine. "The club's different than I expected."

"They're just people," she says, sliding pancakes onto a plate. "Complicated, dangerous sometimes, but still just people. They take care of their own."

Their own.

Ruger had said the same thing last night.

Like I already belonged to something bigger than myself.

It’s not long before the morning regulars start piling in and I lose myself in the familiar rhythm—pour coffee, take orders, wipe tables.

Simple tasks requiring just enough focus to quiet the chaos in my mind.

By late afternoon, the bar sits nearly empty except for a table of truckers finishing late lunches.

I'm restocking napkin dispensers when the door swings open, and a man I've never seen before walks in.

Something about him immediately sets off alarm bells.

Nothing specific—not his faded jeans or his plain button-down shirt.

He looks ordinary, forgettable even.

But the way his eyes scan the room, lingering on every face, feels icky.

"Afternoon," I say as he slides onto a barstool. "What can I get you?"

"Just coffee for now." His voice is pleasant, unremarkable. "Long drive ahead."

I pour his coffee, keeping my movements casual while studying him from the corner of my eye. Late thirties, average build, close-cropped hair. Nothing threatening, yet tension crawls up my spine.

"Quiet place," he comments, stirring sugar into his cup. "Been here long?"

"The bar? Since before I was born."

He smiles. "I meant you."

I keep my expression neutral. "Six months or so."

"Passing through or staying?"

"Staying," I answer, though part of me wonders why I'm giving him any information at all. "It's home now."

He nods thoughtfully, taking a sip. "I'm looking for an old friend who might have settled in this area. Elizabeth Hayes. Blonde, about your height. Beautiful girl."

My heart stops. Elizabeth. My real name.

"Don't know anyone by that name," I say, impressed by how steady my voice sounds even with the panic flooding my system.

"Shame. She's got family worried sick about her." He pulls out his phone, turning it to show me a photo. "This her?"

The picture is me—three years ago, at a Christmas party with Marco. I'm smiling, unaware of what was coming. I barely recognize the carefree woman with her arm around the man who would later push her down a flight of stairs.

"Sorry," I say, shaking my head. "Don't know her."

His eyes narrow slightly, studying my face. "You sure? Maybe she goes by a different name now. Liz? Beth? Matilda?"

The deliberate mention of my middle name sends ice through my veins.

He knows. He's toying with me.

"Never met an Elizabeth," I repeat, turning away to wipe down the counter. "Or those others. Small town—pretty sure I'd know if someone like that moved here, especially a thin blonde like that. They stick out like a sore thumb."

Truth is, I was about sixty pounds lighter when I was first with Marco, and I certainly wasn't sporting my natural hair color.

He leaves his coffee untouched, placing a twenty on the counter. "Keep the change. If you do happen to see her, there's five grand for anyone who helps her reconnect with concerned family."

He slides a business card across the bar.

Just a phone number, no name.

"I'll keep that in mind," I say, taking the card with fingers I refuse to let tremble.

As soon as he's gone, I bolt for the bathroom, barely making it before my breakfast comes up.

I retch until there's nothing left but acid and fear.

In that first text, Marco said he knew where I was… and now I know he wasn’t bluffing.

He’s already sending his people after me, and soon he’ll be here to personally put me down like a dog that’s misbehaved.

The card burns in my pocket as I rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face.

I stare at my reflection—pale, eyes wide with terror.

Run.

That's my first instinct, the same instinct that got me out of Pittsburgh alive.

I could pack what fits in my car and disappear. New name, new town, start over.

But running means leaving Ellie, who's become the closest thing to family I've had since cutting ties with my parents.

It means leaving the bar, the first place I've felt safe in years.

It would mean leaving Ruger before whatever's growing between us has a chance to become something real.

I make it through the rest of my shift on autopilot, jumping at every door chime, every unfamiliar voice.

By closing time, my nerves are shot, hands shaking as I count the register.

Ellie locks the front door, looking over her shoulder and stares right at me. "You going to tell me what's wrong, or do I have to guess?"

I hesitate, then pull out the business card. "A man came in looking for me. Used my real name."

Her face darkens. "That Marco fellow?"

"One of his men. Had to be."

"Did he threaten you?"

"Didn't have to." I slump against the bar. "Offering money for information about where I am—that's how Marco operates. First comes the search, then comes whatever he's planning once he finds me."

Ellie takes my hands, her grip warm and steady. "You're calling Ruger."

"No."

"Yes, you are. This is exactly what the club is for—protection."

"I don't want to drag anyone else into my mess."

"Honey," she says firmly, "your mess walked through that door today. Now you can face it alone, or you can accept help from people who care about you."

Her words hit harder than I expect—people who care about me.

When was the last time I had that?

"I'll think about it," I promise.

Back in my trailer, I double-check all the locks, then pull the blinds tight.

The small space that usually feels cozy now seems exposed, vulnerable.

Every creak, every shadow becomes a threat.

I take the hottest shower I can stand, trying to scrub away the feeling of being watched.

As steam fills the tiny bathroom, my mind races through too many scenarios, each more terrifying than the one before it.

Marco finding me in the parking lot. Marco waiting in my trailer. Marco hurting Ellie to get to me.

I'm toweling off when someone knocks on my door.

I freeze, heartbeat thundering in my ears.

"Tildie? It's Ruger."

Relief floods through me, immediately followed by panic of a different sort. I'm in nothing but a towel, hair dripping wet.

"Just a minute!"

I throw on sweats and a tank top, scrunch my hair with the towel, and try to calm my breathing before opening the door.

Ruger stands on my tiny porch, leather cut over a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.

He's holding a small white bakery box.

"Hey," he says, those dark eyes taking in my damp hair and flushed face. "Bad time?"

"No, just...surprised. What are you doing here?"

"Brought pie," he says, lifting the box. "From that place in town everyone raves about. Figured I owed you dessert after dinner last night."

The normalcy of the gesture—a man bringing dessert after a… date—feels so foreign it almost makes me laugh. Or cry. I'm not sure which.

"You okay?" His expression shifts, concern replacing his usual charm. "You look..."

I finish for him. "Terrified?"

His jaw tightens. "What the fuck happened?"

I step back, letting him in.

My trailer is small—just a living area with a kitchenette, a bedroom, and the bathroom. With Ruger inside, it feels even smaller, his presence filling every corner.

"Someone came to the bar today," I say, wrapping my arms around myself. "Looking for Elizabeth Hayes."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Your real name."

I nod. "Had a picture of me with Marco from a few years back. Offering money for information. Luckily, I was a blonde and stick thin back then, so he didn’t realize who I was."

Ruger sets the pie box on my tiny dining table, his movements deliberately controlled.

I recognize the effort it takes for him to contain his anger.

"Tell me everything," he says quietly.

I relay the entire encounter—the man's questions, the photo, the business card I show him.

With each detail, Ruger's expression grows darker. "Did Ellie see him?"

"No, she was in the office."

He's silent for a moment, thinking. "He'll be back. Or someone else will."

"I know."

"You should stay at the clubhouse, with me."

The suggestion makes me stiffen. "I'm not running to you for safety like some damsel in distress."

"This isn't about being a damsel, Tildie. It's about making smart choices when someone's hunting you."

"I've been hunted before," I remind him. "I survived."

"By running." His voice is gentle, not accusing. "Is that what you want to do again? Leave Ellie? Leave everything you've built here?"

The question hits where it hurts most. "No."

"Then let me fuckin’ help, darlin’. God, let me help."

Something inside me crumbles—not from weakness, but I think from exhaustion.

Six months of looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows.

Six months of pretending I'm fine when I'm terrified out of my damn mind.

"I don't know how to let people help me anymore," I admit, the words barely audible.

Ruger moves closer, slowly, like approaching a wild animal. "Then we figure it out together. One day at a time, remember?"

I find myself nodding, tears threatening to spill. "The pie's probably getting cold."

He smiles, the tension breaking slightly. "It's apple. Tastes good cold too."

We settle at my small table, eating pie straight from the box with forks from my drawer.

The dessert is delicious, but I barely taste it, too aware of Ruger's eyes on me.

"Tell me about him," Ruger says finally. "About Marco."

I set down my fork, the sweetness turning bitter in my mouth. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. How you met. How it got bad. How you got away."

"It's not a pretty story."

Ruger knows a little bit, but he doesn’t know everything.

There’s something in his eyes, almost like he understands how cruel the nitty gritty is. "Few of mine aren’t either."

Something in his words loosens the knot in my chest.

So, I tell him everything.

About meeting Marco after my father racked up gambling debts he couldn't pay.

About how Marco swooped in like a savior, paying off the loan sharks, making me feel indebted to him.

About how his charm and attentiveness gradually morphed into possession and control.

I explain how he isolated me from my family, forcing me to choose between them and him when my father discovered Marco's drug connections to the Grim Vultures.

How that ultimatum destroyed the relationship with my parents and brothers—people I haven't spoken to in over a year.

"He made himself my entire world," I tell Ruger, staring at my hands. "First by being everything I needed, then by taking away everyone else I loved."

I hesitate at the darkest parts.

The stairs. The baby.

But I feel like I can be honest with Ruger, like I can tell him all of the parts I want to keep buried.

"I was five months pregnant," I whisper, staring at the table. "He pushed me down the stairs during a fight. I lost the baby."

Ruger sucks in a sharp breath and it’s the only sound in the room.

When I look up, the fury in his eyes should frighten me.

Instead, it validates the rage I've carried silently since I lost my child.

"After that, I knew I had to leave," I continued. "Took me another year to make it happen. Had to save money in cash, hide it where he wouldn't look. Had to wait until he trusted me enough to stop checking my phone every night."

"You're the strongest person I've ever met," Ruger says, the words so unexpected they throw me for a loop. "Most people never leave."

"I almost didn't."

"But you did." He reaches across the table, his hand covering mine. "That's what matters."

His touch anchors me to the present, to this small trailer where I'm safe—for now.

"Your turn," I say. "Tell me about Striker. About why you exiled your own uncle."

Ruger's thumb traces circles on my hand as he speaks of his aunt running to him bloody and beaten, about the confrontation at church, about the choice to exile rather than execute his father's brother.

"I spent most of my life looking up to him," Ruger admits. "I didn’t think a man I loved and respected so much could be capable of something like that."

"Me and your aunt are quite a pair," I say softly. "Both damaged by men who were supposed to love us."

"Damaged doesn't mean broken," he counters. "Just means you understand shit most people don't."

His eyes hold mine, and something shifts between us in a way it never has.

I'm not sure who moves first—maybe we both do.

One moment we're sitting across from each other, the next I'm in his lap, his mouth hot and demanding against mine.

This kiss is different from last night's—more desperate, more honest.

My fingers tangle behind his head as his hands grip my hips, pulling me against him.

"Tell me to stop," he growls against my mouth, "and I'll stop."

"Don't stop," I whisper back, shivering as his beard scrapes along my neck. "Please don't stop."

His hands slip under my tank top, skimming up my ribs to cup my breasts. I gasp when his thumbs brush across my nipples, arching into his touch.

"Bedroom," I manage, tugging at his shirt. "Now."

He stands with me wrapped around him, carrying me the few steps to my bedroom.

My back hits the mattress, and he follows me down, his weight pressing me into the sheets in a way that should feel threatening but somehow doesn't.

Our clothes disappear in a desperate flurry.

When he's finally naked above me, I take a moment to admire the tattoos covering his legs and the way they flow around to his back, the play of muscles beneath inked skin.

"You're gorgeous," I breathe, tracing a pattern that winds around his upper thigh.

"I was just thinking the same about you." His eyes roam over my body with an intensity that makes me flush. "Fuck, Tildie, you're perfect."

His hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet for him.

I cry out when his fingers circle the most sensitive part of me, pleasure spiking sharp and sudden.

"Need you," I gasp, reaching between us to wrap my hand around his hard cock. "Now."

"Protection," he starts, but I shake my head.

"I'm on birth control. And I'm clean. Got tested after..."

Understanding flashes in his eyes. After Marco. After losing the baby.

"I'm clean too," he assures me. "Get tested regularly."

That's all the discussion we need.

He positions himself at my entrance, searching my face one last time for permission.

I answer by lifting my hips, taking him in an inch.

He slides home in one slow thrust that steals my breath away.

For a moment, we're perfectly still, adjusting to the sensation of being joined.

"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

"More than okay," I assure him, rolling my hips experimentally. "Move, Ruger. Please."

He sets a rhythm that has me clinging to his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin.

Each thrust pushes me higher, closer to the edge I haven't fallen over with another person in far too long.

"Look at me," he commands softly, and I open my eyes I didn't even realize I closed. "I want to see you come apart."

The intensity in his gaze is my undoing.

Wave after wave of pleasure washes over me as I shatter around him, his name falling from my lips like a prayer.

He follows soon after, his rhythm faltering as he pulses inside me, face buried in my neck as he groans my name.

After, he doesn't roll away.

Instead, he gathers me against his chest, one hand stroking my hair as our breathing gradually slows.

"Stay," I whisper, surprising myself with the request. "Tonight. Please."

His arms tighten around me. "Wasn't planning on going anywhere."

We lie in silence, our bodies cooling in the night air.

I should feel vulnerable, exposed.

Instead, I feel strangely protected, like the walls I've built around myself have expanded to include him inside their confines.

"What happens now?" I ask finally, voicing the question that's been circling my mind since the man showed up at the bar.

"Now we find the fuckers who are looking for you," Ruger answers, his voice rumbling against my cheek. "And we make it very clear that you're not alone anymore."

"Marco won't stop."

"Neither will I." He tilts my face up to his, his expression deadly serious. "I protect what's mine, Tildie. Always have, always will."

I should bristle at the possessiveness in his tone, should remind him that I belong to no one but myself.

But after so many months of being alone, of having no one to turn to, his words feel less like a cage and more like a shield.

"One day at a time," I remind him, echoing our promise.

"One day at a time," he agrees, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Starting with tonight."

As I drift toward sleep in the circle of his arms, I know things have fundamentally changed.

For better or worse, I've tied my fate to Ruger's. To the club's.

The thought should terrify me.

Instead, for the first time since I fled Pittsburgh, I sleep without dreaming of falling down stairs, of Marco's hands pushing me into darkness.

Tonight, I sleep peacefully, in the arms of a man who would never allow any harm to come to me.