Page 62 of Ruger's Rage

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Page 62 of Ruger's Rage

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.