Page 8

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ruger

A call comes at 5:30 in the morning, dragging me from sleep and Tildie's warm, plush body.

"Prez, we got a problem." Bloodhound's voice is tight, like he knows I’m not gonna be happy about this shit. "Grim Vultures' clubhouse in Amity just went up in flames."

I'm instantly awake, easing out of bed to avoid disturbing Tildie. "Any casualties?"

"None reported. Place was empty."

"And why's this our problem?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"Because someone left one of our patches in the parking lot. Word's spreading that Saints Outlaws torched the place."

"Fuck." I rub a hand over my face, mind racing. "I'll be at the club in twenty."

I hang up, turning to find Tildie watching me with sleep-heavy eyes.

She pulls the sheet up to cover herself. "Something happen with the club?"

"Yeah." I sit on the edge of the bed, letting my hand rest on her hip through the thin fabric. "Someone hit a Vultures club in Amity last night. Left one of our patches there, like a fuckin’ signature."

Her eyes widen. "But you didn't order it."

"No, I didn’t." The fact she immediately understands what’s going on does something to my chest. "Someone's settin’ us up."

She sits up, the sheet falling away in a way that momentarily distracts me. "Striker?"

"Most likely. Or someone working with him." I pause, uncertain how to handle this new territory—waking up with a woman I actually give a shit about. "I need to get going."

"I know." She runs a hand through her tangled hair. "Will I see you later?"

The question, so simple, so domestic, hits harder than it should. "Yeah. Stop by the clubhouse after your shift?"

She hesitates. "I don't want to be in the way."

"You’ll never be in the fuckin’ way, darlin’," I lean in, stealing a kiss that quickly deepens. When I pull back, we're both breathing harder. "Last night wasn't just about sex, Tildie. I want you."

"I know," she whispers, her fingers tracing the tattoo on my upper thigh. "Be careful today."

I reluctantly pull away, searching the floor for my scattered clothes.

I find my jeans half under the bed, boxer briefs tangled with her sweats.

I pull them on, muscles tense from the situation at hand, even though all I want to do is crawl back into bed with her and run my hands along her luscious curves.

My shirt somehow ended up on her dresser, my cut hanging over a chair.

As I dress, I catch her watching me—eyes tracking my movements in a way that tells me she wants me, bad.

I almost strip right back down and give her the most wild ten minutes of her life, but I know better.

I have to be cautious with her, because the last thing I want to do is push her away.

Instead, I lace up my boots, grab my phone, then lean over for one last kiss that nearly makes me jump back in her bed for a quickie before I go.

"Lock the door behind me," I tell her, forcing myself to be the President again rather than just a man leaving his woman's bed. "I'll text you."

The ride to the clubhouse gives me time to think, to shift gears from the man who held Tildie all night to the President who needs to handle a war I didn’t fucking start.

Finding our patch at the scene is intentional.

Someone did this.

Someone wants to cause an inferno of conflict between the clubs, and there's only one person with both the motivation and the knowledge—Striker.

The clubhouse parking lot is full when I arrive.

I find Bloodhound waiting for me at the main door, face grim. "Got something you need to see."

He leads me to his office, spreading photos across his desk. "These were taken at the Vultures' clubhouse two days ago."

The surveillance shots show three men entering the building—one of them Striker. "That's not the concerning part."

He points to another image, this one showing a corner of a Saint's Outlaws patch visible in someone's back pocket. "Striker knew about the warehouse raid before it happened. Knew the exact security rotation. Someone's been feeding him information on our operations, Prez. Has to be."

Only a handful of people have access to our security protocols—brothers, and prospects.

One of them is a traitor.

In the main area, voices rise and fall like waves—anger, confusion, accusations.

I roar, immediately causing the room to break out in silence. "Quiet!"

Everyone’s eyes turn to me, looking for direction, leadership. "Patches and officers, get your asses in church, now!"

It doesn’t take long before we’re piling in the room and I’m seated at the head of the redwood table.

"What we know," I begin, settling back in my chair, "is that someone torched the Vultures' Amity clubhouse last night and left our patch behind."

"We didn't hit them," Maddox states, his massive arms crossed. "So who did?"

"Striker," Bloodhound answers before I can. "Has to be."

I nod, acknowledging the obvious suspect. "He knows our protocols, our marks. He's positioning the Vultures to retaliate against us for something we didn't do."

"So what's the play?" Ounce asks.

"First, we find out exactly what happened. Bloodhound, you and Maddox head to Amity. Talk to your sources, get surveillance footage if it exists."

Bloodhound nods. "Copy."

"Second, we enhance security at all our locations. Double patrols, check-ins every two hours. No one rides alone until we know what we're dealing with."

The brothers nod, understanding the gravity of the situation.

"Third," I continue, "we need to identify the weak link. Someone's feeding information to Striker. Could be a prospect, a hang-around, even someone's pissed off ex-ol’ lady. It’s not exactly like we change our protocols often enough."

The tension in the room ratchets up.

The notion that one of our own might be betraying us sits heavy among us all.

"Every prospect goes under the microscope," I order. "Check phones, check movements, check bank accounts. Someone's not loyal, and I want to know who before the Vultures come knocking for revenge."

I slam my gavel down and outside in the hallway are our prospects… but one of them is drawing my eye.

Rookie—our newest prospect—shifts nervously in his chair.

Kid's been with us less than a year, transferred from Chicago to attend WVU.

He's Digger's cousin, which earned him consideration, but something about his body language triggers my instincts.

I make a mental note to have Bloodhound dig deeper into his background.

Not an accusation, just doing my due diligence. Something is bothering the kid and that’s enough to raise a red flag up for me.

As the brothers fan out, I lift my chin at Rookie. "Need you to keep eyes on Backroads today," I tell him. "Discreet, from a distance. Anyone suspicious shows up, you call me directly."

"You got it, Prez." His eyes don't quite meet mine. "Anything specific I should watch for?"

"Male, late thirties, average build. Came asking about Tildie yesterday."

"The thick bartender?" He looks surprised. "What's so special about her?"

The urge to grab him by the throat for the dismissive tone is immediate.

I tamp it down, reminding myself that he doesn't know Tildie's significance to me.

"She's under our protection," I grit out. "That makes her special enough."

"Copy that, Prez." His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "I'll watch her back."

Something feels off, but I can't place it.

Could be nothing—kid's always been nervous around me.

Could be something worse.

Time will tell.

Rookie starts to walk off, but I can’t let this go. "Prospect, Tildie is mine. If anythin’ happens to her on your watch, I’m holding you personally responsible."

I swear I put the fear of God into this kid.

I spend the next few hours coordinating security, reaching out to allies, doing everything I can to prepare for the shitshow that’s on my door.

By noon, my nerves are frayed and my patience is thinner than usual.

The need to see Tildie, to confirm she's safe, grows by the minute.

Rookie’s watching the bar and I’m sure everything is fine, but shit isn’t sitting well with me today.

I text her:

Everything okay at the bar?

The three dots appear immediately.

Fine. Quiet day.

Relief washes through me, followed by a stronger urge to see her.

Still coming by later?

A longer pause this time.

Yes. Is that still okay with everything going on?

I text her back immediately:

More than okay, darlin’. See you then.

I tuck my phone away, catching Bloodhound watching me from my office door.

I arch a brow. "What?"

"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just never seen you like this over a woman before."

"She's not just any woman."

"I can see that." His tone holds no judgment, just observation. "She been filled in on what happened?"

"The basics. She knows someone's setting us up."

He nods, processing. "Smart move, keeping her in the loop. This shit's going to affect her too if she's with you."

" If? " The word comes out more aggressively than I intended.

A rare smile crosses his face. "When, then."

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes again—Maddox calling from Henderson.

"Tell me you found something," I answer.

"Better than something. Got security footage from the gas station across the street. Shows three guys in hoodies torching the place around 2 AM."

"Can you ID them?"

"No, but the camera caught their vehicle—black SUV, no plates. Same one that's been spotted near our south side warehouse before it got hit."

I process this, the puzzle pieces fitting together. "Someone's coordinating strikes against both clubs, making it look like we're hitting each other."

"That's how I read it. He’s playing both sides against each other from the middle."

"Get the footage and head back. I want everyone to see what we're dealing with."

After I hang up, I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples where a headache threatens to take hold.

The game Striker's playing is dangerous—deadly—and I can't help feeling we're missing something crucial.

Around three, Aunt Ellie calls. "Ryan, honey, mind if I stop by? Need to talk about bar business."

There's something in her tone that tells me this isn't just about the bar. "Sure. You know where to find me."

I spot her car on the security cameras, so I head into the main area and greet her with a covered casserole dish in hand. "Brought lunch. Figured you boys weren't eating properly with all the chaos."

The "boys" in question—Bloodhound, Ounce, and a couple of the prospects—rush over to the food like they haven't eaten in days, which might actually be true.

Ellie has that effect on people—making them remember basic human needs like food in the middle of a crisis.

After setting out the meal, she motions me to follow her to my office.

"So," she begins once the door closes, "I went to visit an old friend by your place last night and didn’t see your Harley out."

It's not a question.

My aunt has always had an uncanny ability to know my movements, even before cell phones made it easy to track people.

Then again, I was an unruly teenager who gave her more than a few gray hairs.

"Had some things to handle." It's not exactly a lie.

"Mmm-hmm." She settles into the chair across from my desk. "Saw your Harley outside Tildie's trailer this morning when I woke up."

Busted.

I wait for the lecture I’m sure to have, the reminder about being careful with Tildie's heart, the warning not to bring club business to her doorstep.

Instead, Ellie says, "She's different today. Calmer, even with that man coming to the bar yesterday."

I blink, caught off guard by her observation. "She told you about that?"

"Of course she did. Girl was terrified." Ellie fixes me with a look that could strip paint. "But you already knew, didn't you? That's why you showed up with pie."

I try for nonchalance and fail miserably. "Had a feeling something was wrong."

"She's important to you." Again, not a question.

"Yeah." I see no point in denying it. "She is."

Ellie nods, studying me like she used to when I was a kid trying to hide a broken window or a failing grade. "I've watched that girl fight her demons for six months, Ryan. Seen how hard she works to stand on her own two feet. She doesn't need another man making decisions for her."

The defensiveness in my tone surprises even me. "I know that."

"Do you?" She leans forward. "Because the way I see it, you've got the world's biggest target on your back right now, and you've painted one on hers by association."

The harsh truth should be enough for me to put distance between us, but I won’t. "You think I don't know that? You think I'm not doing everything possible to protect her? But to be fair, Aunt Ellie, she had a target on her back before she even got here. We all know it."

"You know what I think," she says more gently, "that you're falling for her. And that complicates everything."

"It's not—" I stop, unable to finish the lie. "Yeah. It does."

Ellie's expression softens. "Funny thing is, I think she's falling for you too. Girl was blushing six ways to Sunday when I mentioned your bike this morning."

Something warm unfurls in my chest at the thought. "She's not like the others."

"No, she's not. Which is why this conversation is happening." She reaches across the desk, taking my hand in hers. "You're a good man, Ryan. Better than your uncle ever was. But this life you've chosen—it costs people. Especially the women in it."

I know she's thinking of her own scars, the price she paid for loving Striker. "I would never hurt her."

"Not intentionally. But what about the enemies you've made? The ones you're making right now?" She squeezes my hand. "What happens to her if this thing with the Vultures escalates?"

"I'll protect her." The words come easily, instinctively.

"And if you can't?"

The question hangs between us. I've buried brothers before, men I'd sworn to protect. The thought of burying Tildie is unbearable.

"I'm not letting her go," I say finally. "Not unless she wants me to."

Ellie studies me for a long moment, then nods as if coming to a decision. "Then I expect you to do better by her than any man ever has. That includes keeping her in the loop, not just shielding her from hard truths like the oldies used to do before you."

"I’m being as honest with her as I can, Aunt Ellie."

"Good." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "Because that girl's like a daughter to me now. You hurt her, President or not, I'll tie you up on the clothesline by your damn ear."

The threat, coming from my five-foot-four aunt, should be laughable. It isn't.

"Understood."

She moves to the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth, you two make sense together. Both carrying too much, both too stubborn for your own good." A small smile touches her lips. "Reminds me of your parents sometimes."

The comparison stuns me.

My parents had the kind of love that survived club life, that thrived even when it shouldn’t have, until my mother's illness took her.

It's the highest compliment Aunt Ellie could ever say to me.

"Thanks, Aunt Ellie."

She nods once, then slips out.

By evening, the clubhouse becomes command central. Maps cover the walls, tracking Grim Vultures' movements against our own. Security footage from Amity plays on a loop as brothers study it for clues.

Maddox and Bloodhound return with more intel, confirming our suspicions—this was a professional hit designed to look like amateur work.

It’s the kind of job that requires insider knowledge and meticulous planning.

The evening stretches into night as we review all the intel we’ve gathered and plan our next moves.

Every hour that passes without the Vultures retaliation makes me more anxious, not less.

They're planning something—I can feel it.

I glance at my phone. Tildie's shift ended half an hour ago. She should be here by now.

As if reading my thoughts, Bloodhound appears in my doorway. "Prospect at the gate says your girl just pulled in."

My girl.

The simple phrase shouldn't make my chest tighten like that. "Thanks. Send her to my apartment when she gets in."

He nods, no judgment in his expression. "I'll handle things here. We got this."

I clap his shoulder as I pass. "Keep Ounce with you. I want his eyes on those security feeds."

My private apartment sits at the back of the compound—separate from the main clubhouse, accessible only through a hallway with reinforced doors and security cameras.

It's the safest place on the property, originally designed for club presidents with families.

I'm closing the door to my office when I spot Tildie being escorted through the main hall by Maddox.

She looks small beside his towering frame, but not intimidated.

Her chin's up, shoulders back, even as her eyes dart nervously around the unfamiliar space.

Pride surges through me at her courage.

Another woman might have run after yesterday's scare at the bar. Not Tildie.

"Thanks, Maddox," I say, approaching them. "I'll take it from here."

His eyes flick between us, a ghost of a smile touching his usually stern face. "She's all yours, Prez." He nods to Tildie. "Ma'am."

I can see her fighting a smile at the formal address. "Thanks for the escort. Did they put you on babysitting duty?"

"Protection detail," he corrects without missing a beat. "President's orders."

As he walks away, Tildie turns to me, one eyebrow raised. "President's orders, huh?"

"Can't be too careful." I reach for her hand, relieved when she doesn't pull away. "Come on. Place is a madhouse tonight. My place is quieter."

She follows me through the compound, taking in the war room we've set up—maps covering walls, brothers hunched over laptops, security feeds from various properties displayed on monitors.

"This is serious," she observes, voice low.

"Yeah." No point sugarcoating it. "Striker's making moves. We need to be ready."

In my apartment, she relaxes slightly.

The space is separate from the chaos—a living area with a worn leather couch, kitchenette, bedroom visible through an open door.

It's not fancy, but it's mine.

"Drink?" I offer, heading to the fridge.

"Water's fine."

I grab two bottles, handing her one before settling beside her on the couch.

For a moment, we sit in silence, the events of last night and today hanging between us.

"You're different here," she says finally. "More... president, less Ruger."

The observation surprises me. "Different how?"

"The way you move. The way they look at you." She studies me, head tilted. "Like everything depends on you making the right call."

"It does."

"That's a lot of pressure."

I shrug, uncomfortable with her perception. "Comes with the patch."

She takes a sip of water, eyes never leaving my face. "Ellie mentioned seeing your Harley this morning at my place."

Heat crawls up my neck. "Yeah, she, uh, mentioned that to me too."

A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "Did she threaten to tie you to the clothesline by your ear if you hurt me?"

I laugh, tension breaking. "Something like that. She giving you the same speech?"

"No. Just asked if you'd at least brought breakfast after keeping me up all night."

"Jesus," I groan, running a hand through my hair. "That woman's been embarrassing me since I was eight."

"It's sweet." Tildie's voice softens. "She cares about you. About both of us, I think."

"She does." I take her hand, tracing circles on her palm with my thumb. "She actually said we remind her of my parents."

Tildie's eyes widen. "Wow. That's... a big deal, right?"

"Yeah." I hesitate, then tell myself I need to have this conversation with her. "Tildie, things are escalating faster than I expected. This thing with the Vultures, Striker making moves, your ex being in the mix—it's all connecting. I need to make sure you’re safe."

Wariness creeps into her expression. "And what exactly does that mean?"

"I want you staying here. At the club." I gesture around us. "Here, in my quarters specifically."

"Ruger..."

"Just until we shut this down." I squeeze her hand, willing her to understand. "There's too many threats circling right now. I can't be everywhere at once."

She pulls her hand away, rising to pace the small space. "So I'm supposed to just... what? Hide here while you handle the big bad world?"

"It's not hiding. It's a strategic relocation."

"It's running," she counters, arms crossing defensively. "I've done enough running."

I stand, moving to block her path. "This isn't the same and you know it. You're not running from anything. You're letting the club—letting me —protect you while we handle threats to both of us."

"My trailer is literally twenty yards from the bar. I've got locks, I know what to watch for now."

"Locks won't stop these people." My patience thins. "They burned down a clubhouse last night, Tildie. You think they'll hesitate to kick in your door, or fuckin’ burn you alive in that fuckin’ trailer if Marco points them in the right direction?"

Fear flashes across her face before she schools her expression. "I'm not some damsel who needs rescuing, Ruger. I survived Marco. I'll survive this."

"This isn't about you being weak." I grasp her shoulders gently. "This is about me being stronger with you safe. I can't focus on handling Striker if I'm worried about you alone in that trailer."

Something in my words seems to reach her.

She studies my face, searching for... what? Manipulation? Control? She won't find it. This isn't Marco's possessiveness. This is protection, pure and simple.

"What about Ellie?"

"I asked her to stay here too."

"And?"

"She told me she'd think about it." I smile ruefully. "Which is Aunt Ellie’s language for 'I'll do what I want regardless of what you think is best.'"

That draws a small laugh from her. "She is stubborn."

"Runs in the family apparently."

Her expression softens. "I have a job, Ruger. A life. I can't just move in here indefinitely."

"Not indefinitely. Just until we deal with the immediate threats." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "And you can still work. We'll have brothers escort you to and from the bar. Extra security on site."

"That's... a lot of resources to protect one bartender."

"You're not just a bartender." The words come out more forcefully than intended. "You're my woman."

Her eyes widen at my words, but she doesn't flinch away. "I don't belong to anyone."

"That's not what I meant." I struggle to find the right words. "You're important to me, Tildie. More than I expected. More than makes sense after such a short time."

"I know." Her voice drops to almost a whisper. "You're important to me too. That's what scares me."

I step closer, resting my forehead against hers. "So let me keep you safe. Just for now."

She's quiet so long I think she'll refuse. Finally, she nods. "Two conditions."

"Name them."

"I keep working my normal shifts. No hiding away completely."

"Done. With security, prospects watching over you."

"And..." She hesitates, her next words surprising me. "I want to know everything. No shielding me from what's happening. If I'm in danger, I want to know exactly why and how bad it is."

It's the opposite of what most women would ask.

Most would want reassurance, protection from the cruelties of the world. Not Tildie. She wants truth, even when it's ugly.

"Full disclosure," I agree. "No secrets."

She searches my eyes for any sign of deception, then nods once. "Okay. I'll stay."

Relief washes through me, so powerful I have to resist the urge to crush her against my chest.

Instead, I cup her face in my hands. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. You might regret having me in your space."

I brush my lips against hers. "Never."

She returns the kiss, her hands coming up to rest on my chest. When we part, she looks around the room properly for the first time. "So, this is where the club president lives. Less intimidating than I expected."

"What were you imagining? Thrones made of enemy skulls?"

Her laugh rings genuine. "Maybe a few more leather accents. A wall of weapons."

"The armory's in another building entirely."

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the smile she's trying to hide. "Of course it is."

"To be fair, I have a property about fifteen minutes away. It’s on forty acres, but I stay here when necessary."

She laughs. "Your own little slice of paradise."

"Exactly."

I give her the quick tour—bathroom, bedroom, small office.

She trails her fingers along bookshelves, examines the few photos I keep, catalogs the pieces of me most people never see.

"When should I get my things?"

"Tonight, if you're comfortable with it. I can send a couple of guys with you."

She nods, but I can see she's processing her reality—these precautions are necessary.

"Tildie." I wait until she meets my eyes. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"You can't promise that."

"I can promise to do everything in my power to keep you safe. To keep us both safe."

She steps closer, resting her hand against my cheek. "I know. That's why I'm staying."

This woman who's been so betrayed, so hurt by men with power, is choosing to trust me with her safety.

"When this is over," I tell her, "we'll figure out what comes next. Okay?"

"One day at a time," she reminds me, echoing our agreement.

"One day at a time," I agree, pulling her close.

As she melts against me, I allow myself a moment to simply feel her warmth, her softness.

In the middle of this fucking war, she's become my calm, the thing I want when the world goes to hell.

And I'll burn down the world before I let anyone take her away.