Page 7 of Ruger's Rage
I look up to see her standing over us, her injured face streaked with fresh tears.
"Don't become him," she pleads. "Don't let him make you a killer."
My grip loosens, just enough for Striker to drag in a rasping breath.
But before he can speak, Bloodhound is there, pressing a gun to his temple.
"The vote stands," Bloodhound says coldly. "Your patch. Now."
With my knee still on his chest, I watch as Striker's hands move to his cut, slowly removing the President patch and the Saint's Outlaws rocker beneath it.
His hands are shaking with rage, but he knows when he's beaten.
"You're exiled," I tell him, my voice steady even with all of the adrenaline still coursing through me. "You leave town tonight. If I ever see your face again, I'll finish what we started here."
Maddox and Ounce haul him to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine as they drag him toward the door.
"This isn't over, nephew," he promises, his voice raw from my attack. "You'll regret the day you turned on your own blood."
"You stopped being my blood the first time you raised a hand to her," I reply.
After they escort him out, silence falls over church.
I'm aware of blood staining my shirt, of the throbbing pain in my shoulder, but none of it matters as I turn to Ellie.
"It's done," I tell her.
She nods, tears still streaming down her face, but there's something else there too—a relief so profound it makes her look years younger.
"What now?" someone asks from the table.
What now indeed? With Striker gone, the club needs leadership, stability.
"We need a President," Ounce says, his gaze fixed firmly on me.
"I nominate Ruger for President," Bloodhound calls out, using my road name for the first time since this began.
"Second," Maddox adds immediately.
The vote is as unanimous as the one that stripped Striker of his patch.
Just like that, at twenty-nine years old, I find myself the President of the Saint's Outlaws MC: Morgantown charter.
The youngest in our history.
As members come forward to congratulate me, to pledge their loyalty, I find my gaze returning to Ellie.
She's sitting again, exhaustion evident in every line of her body, but there's pride in her eyes as she watches me.
I kneel beside her chair. "I'm getting you to a doctor."
She doesn't argue this time, just nods wearily. "It's really over?"
"It's over," I promise, though I know it's not entirely true.
The ripples from tonight will spread far and wide.
Striker has friends in other chapters, allies in rival clubs.
