Page 9

CHAPTER EIGHT

Tildie

Waking up in a strange bed isn't new to me, but waking up in Ruger's bed is a whole different kind of experience.

I blink at the unfamiliar ceiling, disoriented for a second until the memories of yesterday flood back—moving my essentials to the compound, settling into Ruger's apartment attached to the clubhouse, falling asleep with his arm draped protectively across my waist.

The space beside me is empty, sheets cool to the touch.

He's been gone awhile, I’d guess.

On the nightstand sits a handwritten note:

Had to handle some business. Breakfast in the main room. Nobody bothers you here. - R

The confidence in those last four words should reassure me.

Instead, it makes me feel a flutter of anxiety at the thought of facing the club by myself.

These people are Ruger's family, his world.

What do they think of me—the outsider suddenly living in their President's apartment?

I take my time showering, letting the hot water ease the tension in my shoulders.

Ruger's bathroom is surprisingly clean for a bachelor, with high-end products that hint at a man who takes care of himself.

He has expensive beard shampoo, beard oils, even nose and beard trimmers that look like they cost well over one hundred bucks.

I dress carefully in jeans and a simple blouse—not trying to impress, but not wanting to look like I rolled out of their President's bed either.

Which I did, but that's beside the point.

Finding the main hall isn't difficult—I just follow the smell of coffee and the low rumble of men's voices.

The conversation dies immediately as I enter, a dozen pairs of eyes turning to assess me.

I recognize some faces from Sunday dinner—Bloodhound, Ounce, Maddox—but most are strangers, brothers whose names I've yet to learn.

"Morning," I say casually as I head for the coffee pot.

Bloodhound is the first to respond, nodding respectfully. "Tildie. Coffee's fresh. Food's on the counter."

His acknowledgment seems to break some invisible tension.

Conversations resume, though I notice several curious glances in my direction.

I fill a mug with coffee and grab a plate, surprised at the spread—eggs, bacon, pancakes.

Not the cereal bar and granola options I expected.

"Aunt Ellie dropped that off," Bloodhound explains, appearing beside me. "Said you'd need proper feeding."

I smile, warmed by Ellie's thoughtfulness. "She's always taking care of everyone."

"Club wouldn't function without her." He gestures to an empty seat at a table near the kitchen, away from the main group. "You can sit with me if you want. Ruger should be back soon."

The offer feels deliberate—protection extended beyond just physical security. "Thanks."

I settle across from him, oddly comforted by his stoic presence.

Bloodhound isn't what I expected from a Sgt. at Arms, then again, I don’t even know what he really does..

He's quiet, observant, with a stillness that speaks of discipline rather than aggression.

"So," I begin, searching for conversation, "is this normal? Breakfast together?"

"For some. Brothers come and go. Prospects handle the cooking usually, but Ellie likes to feed us when things get complicated."

"Like now."

He nods, eyes scanning the room in what I can only assume is a typical habit. "Ruger told you about the clubhouse hit?"

"Yeah. Someone making it look like you guys did it."

"Striker." The name comes out flat, emotionless. "Man never could take a loss gracefully."

Before I can respond, a tall blonde in skin-tight jeans and a low-cut top saunters into the room.

She's beautiful in a hard-edged way, heavily made up even at this early hour.

Her eyes lock on me immediately, "So you're the one," she says, her voice carrying across the room. "Ruger's new toy."

The conversations around us falter.

I feel heat rising to my cheeks, but force myself to hold her gaze. "I'm Tildie."

"Bailey." She smirks, looking me up and down. "Didn't realize he was into the curvy type these days."

I've faced mean girls before.

Marco's world was full of women who viewed other females as competition rather than allies.

I know better than to show weakness.

"Apparently, he is." I take a deliberate sip of coffee. "Nice to meet you, Bailey."

She slides into the seat next to Bloodhound, ignoring his obvious displeasure. "You know you're just temporary, right? Ruger doesn't do relationships. When he gets bored, he'll come back to what he knows."

"Bailey," Bloodhound warns, his voice dropping to something cold. "That's enough."

She ignores him, leaning toward me. "You're replaceable, honey. You're not his ol’ lady, just his current entertainment."

Something cold settles in my stomach, but I refuse to let it show. "Thanks for the insight. I'll keep that in mind."

"Bailey." Bloodhound's tone leaves no room for argument. "You're the most replaceable thing here. Don't forget it."

Her face flushes with anger. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His eyes are flat, dispassionate. "There are a dozen women willing to take your place. There's only one of her."

Bailey stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "Fuck you, Bloodhound."

"Not anymore," he replies calmly. "Wasn't memorable enough the first time."

Several brothers chuckle, and Bailey storms out, the door slamming behind her.

I stare at my plate, unsure how to respond to the exchange. "Thank you, I think."

"Don't mention it." Bloodhound returns to his breakfast. "She's just pissed because Ruger never gave her the time of day. Not really."

"Does this happen a lot? Women fighting over... territory?"

His lips quirk in what might be amusement. "Club life. Women come and go. Only a few become ol’ ladies. Rest are just passing through, hoping to catch a patch. Bailey’s a clubwhore, along with Venus and Shayla, but those two aren’t a problem. Bailey, on the other hand, she’s got a hell of a big mouth unless she’s got something shoved in it."

"I'm not trying to catch a patch from him," I feel compelled to clarify.

I don’t even really know what catching a patch even means.

"I know." He regards me with those watchful eyes. "That's probably why Ruger's different with you. You want the man, not the patch, not the power that comes along with being his ol’ lady… whenever that day comes."

Before I can process that statement, the door swings open and Ruger strides in.

His eyes find me immediately, relief visibly washing over his features.

"Morning," he says, making his way to our table. His hand brushes my shoulder casually. "Sleep okay?"

"Fine." I'm hyper-aware of the eyes tracking this interaction. "Your bed's comfortable."

A small smile crosses his face before he turns to Bloodhound. "Everything quiet?"

"Just the usual drama." Bloodhound's gaze flicks to the door Bailey exited through. "Nothing worth mentioning."

Understanding passes between them, and I realize Bloodhound is deliberately not bringing up the confrontation.

He’s protecting me in his own way.

"Rookie's waiting to escort Tildie to the bar," Bloodhound continues. "Whenever she's ready."

Ruger counters, brow furrowing. "I told Porter to handle that."

"Porter got called to handle something at the garage. Rookie offered to work on it, but it was a heavier job. Porter was the better choice, and Rookie’s available to escort Tildie over."

Ruger looks displeased but nods. "Fine. Tell him to stay with her until I relieve him after lunch."

"Got it, Prez."

I glance between them, bothered by the fact I’m being discussed like I'm not even here. "I'm sitting right here, you know."

At least Ruger has the grace to look apologetic. "Sorry, darlin'. Force of habit."

"I'm perfectly capable of getting myself to work."

"I know you are." His hand finds mine under the table. "But humor me. We need eyes on you right now."

The concern in his voice stops my irritation.

After everything I learned yesterday—the clubhouse hit, the evidence that Striker and Marco are connected—I can't really argue against the precautions.

"Fine. But I draw the line at having someone watch me pee."

That draws a laugh from both men, breaking the tension.

"Deal," Ruger agrees.

An hour later, I'm in Rookie's truck heading toward Backroads.

He seems nervous, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, eyes constantly checking the mirrors.

After several miles of silence, I finally speak up. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine." He clears his throat. "Just, you know, first time on protection detail."

"Is that what this is? I thought you were just my chauffeur."

He cracks a small smile. "Prez would have my head if I thought of it that way."

"He's intense."

"You have no idea." Rookie glances at me. "I've seen him break a guy's arm for disrespecting Ellie. You? He'd probably burn down the whole town."

His words should scare me. Instead, warmth shoots through my chest.

It's been so long since someone was willing to fight for me rather than against me.

When we reach Backroads, Ellie's car is already in the lot.

Rookie parks near the back entrance, eyes scanning the area before opening his door.

"Wait here," he instructs, circling the vehicle to check our surroundings.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the theatrics, but a small part of me appreciates the thoroughness.

After the man asking about "Elizabeth" at the bar, I can't dismiss the danger as paranoia.

"All clear," Rookie announces, opening my door. "I'll be inside, keeping watch. Prez's orders."

"Lucky me."

The morning rush keeps me busy enough to forget I'm being shadowed.

Rookie sits at the end of the bar, nursing the same coffee for hours, eyes constantly surveying the room.

Occasionally, he steps outside to check the perimeter, always returning with a thumbs-up that I pretend not to notice.

Around eleven, I take a break to use the restroom.

When I return, Ellie pulls me aside. "How was your first night at the clubhouse?"

"Different. But okay." I hesitate, then add, "Met someone named Bailey this morning. She was... friendly. "

Ellie snorts. "That one's been chasing Ruger for years. Never got further than a drunken night he probably doesn't remember."

"She made that much clear."

"Don't let her get to you. Club life has its hierarchies. Ol’ ladies at the top, clubwhores at the bottom."

"And where do I fit in that hierarchy?"

"That's up to you and Ruger to figure out." She studies me, her expression softening. "He's different with you, you know. Never seen him like this with any woman. I’d say you’re well on your way to being his ol’ lady, sweetie. He wouldn’t be taking protecting you so seriously if you weren’t."

I'm not sure how to respond to that, so I change the subject. "Have you thought more about staying at the compound? Ruger mentioned asking you."

"I'm too old to be running from trouble," she says dismissively.

"It's not running, it's a strategic relocation." I echo Ruger's words from last night. "Please, Ellie. I'd feel better knowing you were safe too."

She seems surprised by my concern. "Let me think about it."

The rest of my shift passes without anything worth noting.

It's almost anticlimactic given everything going on around us—just regular customers, normal orders.

At 2:30, Ruger arrives to relieve Rookie.

The younger man gives a report in low tones before heading out, leaving Ruger to take his place at the bar.

"Quiet day?" he asks, accepting the coffee I slide toward him.

"Too quiet, maybe." I glance around the half-empty bar. "Feels like waiting for the other shoe to drop."

He nods, understanding without me having to explain. "That's usually how it goes. Calm before the storm."

I finish my shift at four, and Ruger walks me to my car.

It's as I'm reaching for the door handle that I see it—a folded piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper.

My blood runs cold.

Ruger notices my reaction instantly. "What is it?"

"There's a note." My voice sounds distant to my own ears. "On my car."

He moves immediately, grabbing the paper before I can get to it. "Get back inside. Now."

I obey without question, heart hammering in my chest as I watch him through the window.

He unfolds the note, his expression darkening as he reads.

After a quick scan of the parking lot, he follows me inside.

I already know it's from Marco. "What does it say?"

Ruger hands me the paper, his restraint visibly cracking. "He's playing games."

The note is brief, written in familiar handwriting that sends a chill down my spine:

Matilda, did you really think changing your name would be enough? You belong with me. This protection won't last. Come home before people get hurt.

No signature. It’s not needed, really.

"He was here." My voice shakes even with my efforts to control it. "He was right here, Ruger. With Rookie watching."

"Or someone working for him." Ruger's jaw is tight, eyes burning with fury. "Rookie didn't see anyone approach your car?"

"Apparently not."

"I'll deal with him later." He takes the note back, folding it carefully. "Evidence."

This isn’t over, not by a long shot.

Everything hits me all at once—this is real, Marco found me, and he's not going to stop until he gets what he wants.

Me. Back under his control. Or dead.

"I need to talk to Ellie," I say suddenly. "I need to convince her to come to the compound."

Ruger studies me for a moment, then nods. "I'll find her."

Ellie emerges from the office, concern etched on her face when she sees our expressions. "What's happened?"

I hold up the note. "Marco left this on my car. He knows where I am, Ellie. He knows I'm here."

She takes the paper, her face paling as she reads. "Oh, honey."

"Please come to the clubhouse," I plead. "If he knows about me, he knows about you too. About us being close."

She hesitates, looking between me and Ruger. "The bar?—"

"Can run without you for a few days," Ruger interrupts. "We'll put brothers on rotation to keep it open. But I need both of you safe, Aunt Ellie. Please."

Something in his voice—a bit of fear, I suspect, few people ever hear—seems to reach her.

"All right," she finally agrees. "Let me pack a bag."

We end up leaving my car at the bar just in case it was tampered with in any way.

While Ellie packs a couple of bags, Ruger takes me into my trailer, and I’m able to get some more clothes options for myself, even some of my skincare.

We head back outside, and Ellie’s waiting at the door of her truck. The moment she sees us, she opens it and tosses her bag in the middle.

I go on the other side and put my bags in too, sliding into the passenger seat.

Ruger starts up his bike and escorts us back to the club’s property, but the moment we get back, he heads off to go deal with what I can only assume is club business.

Once we’re settled in, Ellie and I sit on the small porch attached to Ruger's apartment, sharing beers.

The club is busy as ever—brothers coming and going, bikes rumbling in the distance, and for some reason, I think it might be because of what happened… the note on my car.

"Never thought I'd be back living on club property," Ellie says, staring into the distance. "Brings back memories."

"Good ones?"

"Some." She takes a long pull from her beer. "Before Striker changed, we had good times here. The club was family."

"What happened? Ruger mentioned drugs, but..."

"Meth." She says it plainly, without emotion. "Started using it to stay awake on long runs. Then to feel good. Then because he couldn't stop." She traces a faded scar on her forearm. "Made him paranoid. Violent. Convinced I was cheating, plotting against him."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I stayed too long, made excuses. Even after the first time he hit me." The admission hangs between us, raw. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

I nod, unable to deny the parallels. "How did you finally leave?"

"I guess I was tired of it." She smiles wryly. "I ran to Ryan—I think I knew he wouldn’t let me stay with Striker, and that made it a bit easier. He called church, forced a vote, and exiled his own uncle. Boy was twenty-nine years old, standing against a man he'd looked up to his whole life. A man that filled his father’s shoes when he passed."

The story fills in pieces of Ruger I'm still learning—his fierce protective instinct, the way he honors the club, his willingness to stand alone preparing for a war.

"Marco wasn't always violent either," I find myself saying. "He was charming, generous. Made me feel special when I was drowning in my father's gambling debts."

"They usually start that way."

"Yeah." I pick at the label on my beer bottle. "By the time I saw the real him, I was isolated. Cut off from family, friends. Just me and him."

"And the baby," she adds softly.

I stiffen, surprised. "Ruger told you?"

"No. Women recognize that particular grief in another woman." She reaches for my hand. "I lost one, too. Early on with Striker."

The simple admission, the shared pain, breaks something open inside me.

Before I realize what's happening, I'm sobbing—ugly, gasping cries I haven't allowed myself since the hospital.

Ellie pulls me into her arms, holding me like my mother used to before Marco came between us. "Let it out, honey. It's okay."

"I miss them," I choke out. "My family. I haven't called, haven't told them I'm okay. Marco threatened them if I went back."

"That's what men like him do. Isolate you from anyone who might help you see clearly." She strokes my hair as my tears gradually subside. "But you're not alone anymore, Tildie. You have me. You have Ruger. You have the club."

She’s right—I do have people now.

A new kind of family.

"He's going to come for me," I whisper. "The note makes that clear."

"Let him try." Ellie's voice hardens. "Striker thought he was untouchable too. Look where that got him."

"I'm scared," I admit. "Not just of Marco. Of all of this." I gesture toward the compound, the club, the new life I'm stepping into. "Of caring about Ruger. Of what happens when this is over, if it ever is."

"Fear's natural. But don't let it stop you from living, from loving, if that's where this is heading." She squeezes my hand. "I've known that boy his whole life. Never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

"It's too soon."

"Sometimes time doesn't matter. The connection you two share is the only thing that matters."

I consider her words, the weight of them against my own feelings—the undeniable pull toward Ruger, the safety I feel in his presence, the way my body and heart respond to him, even with every bit of fear I have from my past.

"I'm not running anymore," I confirm. "I'm tired of letting Marco control my life from a distance."

Ellie smiles, pride shining in her eyes. "That's my girl."

Later, when Ruger returns, I'm waiting in his room—our room now, I suppose.

He looks exhausted, the strain of leadership evident in the tightness around his eyes, the weary set of his shoulders.

He shrugs off his cut, placing it on the back of his chair. "Aunt Ellie settled in okay?"

"Yeah. In the guest room down the hall." I move to him, hands reaching to ease the tension in his neck. "Thank you for taking care of her too."

He catches my wrists, pressing a kiss to each palm. "She's family. So are you now."

"I've been thinking about what that means," I tell him. "Being family. Being here with you."

His eyes search mine, hope visible in those steel blue eyes of his. "And?"

"I'm all in, Ruger. Whatever comes, wherever this leads—I'm choosing to stay, to face it with you. No more running."

The decision feels right as I say it, like setting down a burden I've carried for too long.

He pulls me against his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady under my ear. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"I know." I tilt my face up to his. "But that's not why I'm staying. I'm staying because for the first time in years, I feel like myself again. With you. With Ellie. Even with your crazy club."

His laugh rumbles through his chest. "They are a bit much."

"Bailey especially."

His body stiffens. "What did she do?"

"Nothing Bloodhound couldn't handle." I press a kiss to his jaw. "Apparently, I'm just your current entertainment."

A growl escapes him. "I'll set her straight."

"No need. I think I'd rather show her how wrong she is."

I'm tired of being defined by fear, by what was done to me.

It's time to define myself—as a survivor, as a woman making her own choices.

As someone who might be falling for a motorcycle club president with demons of his own.

One day at a time, I remind myself as Ruger's arms tighten around me.

But for now, for tonight, I'm exactly where I want to be.