Page 50 of Ruger's Rage
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."
