Page 18 of Ruger's Rage
We were objects, possessions, problems to be solved with force.
"Thank you," I say carefully. "But I've learned it's better to let men like you handle things your way."
His eyebrows furrow. "'Men like me'?"
"Powerful men," I clarify. "Men who are used to getting what they want."
"And what is it you think I want?"
The question hangs heavy between us. I open my mouth to give a sarcastic answer, but honesty slips out instead: "I don't know. That scares me."
Understanding dawns in his expression. "Someone taught you to be afraid."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Someone taught me that men who look like heroes can be monsters."
The words hang in the air, too honest, too revealing. Ellie has moved to the other end of the bar, giving us space but within earshot.
"I'm not him," Ruger says quietly.
"Everyone says that." My voice is flat. "Until they prove otherwise."
He's quiet for a long moment, sipping his coffee. When he speaks again, his voice is different—rougher, more personal.
"My uncle used to beat my aunt. For years. I didn't see it because he was my hero. President of the club, took me in when my father died." He meets my eyes. "I know what monsters look like, Tildie. I've looked in the mirror and seen one."
The confession catches me off guard. "What happened?"
"I grew up. Opened my eyes. Made different choices." He sets down his mug. "Still have to live with not seeing it sooner."
The parallel to my own guilt—staying with Marco as long as I did—isn't lost on me. But I'm not ready to share that story. Maybe never will be.
"Your aunt seems happy now," I offer instead.
"She is. Stronger than ever." He glances at Ellie. "Reminds me of someone else I know."
The compliment makes my heart stutter. Before I can respond, the lunch prep timer goes off in the kitchen.
"I should start prep," I say, grateful for the escape.
"Yeah, I need to head to the clubhouse anyway." He stands, leaving cash on the bar despite Ellie's protests.
As he reaches the door, he pauses. "Tildie?"
"Yeah?"
"You're safe here. From whatever—whoever—you're running from."
The promise should feel empty. I've heard promises before. But something in his voice, in the steady way he meets my gaze, makes me want to believe.
After he leaves, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"That nephew of yours is trouble," I tell Ellie.
She smiles knowingly. "The best kind usually is."
By three o'clock, the lunch rush has given way to the afternoon lull. I'm restocking the cooler when my phone buzzes with an unknown number. My heart stops.
The text is simple:I know where you are.
