Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
Ruin
When we were fifteen, Dane and I stole our fathers’ rifles. Then I dug through the dumpster behind the clubhouse and scavenged two dozen empty beer bottles.
It started as best out of three. Rock, paper, scissors. I lost.
So there I was—half inside the garbage can, face buried deep in stale rot—while Dane held onto my legs so I wouldn’t topple in headfirst.
We hiked miles out after that. Through trails no one used. Hidden enough that no one would hear the shots. Then we set up our little range. Bottles lined up across a fallen tree trunk.
I can still hear the crack of the rifles. The sharp explosions as glass shattered into splinters.
At first, it was just fun. Then it became a competition.
And that’s when I realized Dane had better aim than me. Consistently. Clean shots. No hesitation. While I kept missing. Adjusting. Missing again. And he kept laughing right in my face. It got under my skin fast.
By the time the last bottle was blown to pieces, I’d lost every damn round. Badly.
I remember the sound of his laughter—loud and unrestrained.
And then he was face down in the dirt. My knee digging into his back hard. My fist clenched, ready to swing.
All while the bastard was still chuckling.
That’s all I remember. Not what I said. Not what he said. Just the heat. The way my skin burned. Muscles locking tight.
One second I was standing there, seething—and the next, he was on the ground. Like something in me just snapped.
Since then, there’ve been three more incidents.
Same pattern leaving fog of fragments instead of memories. One of them even got me my road name. Ruin.
At seventeen, I had obliterated the inventory room at Sinful Chugs in that same fitful rage. Some idiot from school got it into his head that I was screwing his girlfriend. I wasn’t.
But she? She was trouble. The kind that thrives on chaos.
She followed me to work that day and slipped into the inventory room while I was busy logging shipments.
Dim lights. Stacks of crates. The sharp scent of alcohol in the air.
I was hauling boxes of gin and whiskey, checking labels, updating stock. That’s all Dad trusted me with back then. No bar work. No floor. Just inventory until I proved I was ready to prospect.
She cornered me in that room. Sharp eyes. A mouth that knew exactly what it was doing.
I don’t even remember her name. My brain—fucked up and hormonal—didn’t clock the setup. Not until the door slammed open.
Her boyfriend stormed in and ripped me off her. Dragged me into it before I could even process what the hell was happening.
Turns out there was a bet—who’d win in a fight? The school quarterback or the Wardens royalty? It had been a toss between Dane and me.
She chose me to mess with. Big mistake. Because maybe Dane would’ve just knocked the guy out and walked away. I didn’t.
I remember flashes. Wood cracking, glass exploding, the smell of spilled liquor soaking into everything. There was shouting too. Clean swings of fists. Bones breaking.
And when it was over, a hefty eighty grand worth of inventory had been destroyed. Ruined, as Dad said.
All because I lost control.
I spent the next two years after that learning how to rein it in. To stay present. To remember instead of letting that same blinding rage take over and wipe everything out.
It didn’t happen overnight. It was messy. Frustrating. But eventually, I clawed my way into something that resembled control.
I wouldn’t even call it anger management. Not entirely. It was more about refusing to be influenced by the kind of men around me—the ones who fed that instinct instead of fighting it. Especially Dane’s father, Savage.
I saw what he was. What that kind of unchecked violence turned into. And I wanted no part of it. Never wanted to become him.
So I worked at it, hard. Hard enough that by twenty-three, I was patched in as VP—controlled and reliable. Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
Because the instincts never fully left. They just dulled to a point where I could clock the beginnings of my violent haze and control it.
I tried to bury those instincts deep. Deep enough that I became complacent over the years. But I slowly realized that certain things could still reach them. Slip past that control I thought I’d honed.
Like the way my club brother’s fifteen-year-old sister used to look at me. She was way too fucking young. Watching me with those wide, sheepish eyes that didn’t know what they were asking for.
The way she’d wear things that showed too much skin around a brotherhood full of men who were far too old to be looking.
God. The day she hit eighteen, her advances became blatantly public and disruptive. But she didn’t stop, even after I told her to. More than once.
At the time, I’d somehow managed to look away long enough to believe that she wasn’t looking my way. Then the urge to confirm whether she was would take over.
Even worse, there was anger that would rise in me when I’d notice her absence every now and then. Anger at myself for even noticing.
Then all my conditioning fucking failed me.
I remember the moment I found a nineteen-year-old Charlotte, naked in my bed. But her body is a blur.
I can picture my hand on her throat, even the terror swimming in her eyes. But my words are muddled.
I remember dragging her out like the fuming bastard I was, but her whimpering protests barely registered as the feeble vibrations against my palm.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Desperately trying to grasp at my own words through the dazed flashes.
I remember it being the milder version of rage that had taken over me. And even that was enough to cause enough wreckage to last her a lifetime.
Had I said that? Had I actually forbidden her from saying my fucking name?
Fucking hell!
A memory resurfaces from a few hours ago. When we talked about giving Ryder a nickname like she had been giving me.
‘He doesn’t need one. Only you do.’
Yes. Because my name probably tastes like acid in her mouth.
What the fuck have I done? No wonder she doesn’t believe me.
All those useless attempts at telling her I love her—how the hell are they supposed to stand against that? Against the weight of everything I did?
The past doesn’t loosen its grip just because I want it to. It clings. It colors every word I say now.
I haven’t had one of those rage-blackouts in years. Not since she left two years ago. Not one.
Every decision I’ve made since then—every step, every reaction—has been shadowed by her. By the way I didn’t pause. Didn’t question. Didn’t think.
I’ve spent two years forcing myself to do what I never did for her—hesitate. Consider. Doubt my own judgment. Somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough.
A phantom grip tightens around my chest, making it hard to breathe.
She must see something on my face, because the next thing I know, she’s pushing herself off the couch—unsteady, swaying just a little.
Her gaze flicks to the clock on the TV console.
1:37 a.m.
Fuck. I didn’t even realize how late it was.
“I’m… I’m done. I’ll go to bed,” she says flatly. Like the night wrung her dry.
She blinks slowly, dazed. I can’t tell if it’s the conversation or the wine catching up to her. Maybe both.
I nod, pushing myself up on legs that don’t feel entirely steady. “Yeah, I’ll just set the alarm and head out.”
No response. No acknowledgment. She doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even noticeably breathe. Like she’s already somewhere else.
She gathers the empty wine glasses and carries them to the sink, setting them down with quiet precision. Then she turns and walks away. No glance back as she simply disappears into the bedroom.
I stand there for a second too long, bracing myself against the silence she leaves behind.
Too heavy. Too loud.
I shouldn’t have let it go this far. Shouldn’t have stretched her this thin.
Muttering a quiet curse, I force myself to move. To leave. Back to my office. Back to the pathetic excuse of a bed on the couch.
My mind won’t shut up. It keeps circling every word she said tonight. Each one sounds heavier now. Like they cost her something just to speak. Hell, she was barely holding it together by the end, and I kept pushing.
With everything going on—with the war, the fear, the chaos—I doubt she has anything left in her to even dissect my stupid feelings, let alone respond to them.
Hell, I’m probably just making it worse. Confusing her. Burdening her.
‘You all may have had two years to adjust to it. But this is all very sudden to me, Ruin.’
Yeah, no shit. Charlotte doesn’t need this. She sure as fuck doesn’t need me. I shouldn’t have pushed. Should’ve just let her breathe.
All she’s trying to do is survive this mess, and get through whatever nightmare this club has become.
And my feelings? They don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
It’s close to four in the morning by the time my thoughts finally quiet down enough for sleep to take me.
And even then, the last thing that lingers isn’t hope. It’s the quiet, hollow understanding that love—no matter how real it feels—doesn’t always arrive when it’s wanted.
And sometimes, it comes far too late to mean anything at all.