Page 107 of Ruger's Rage
"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.
