Chapter 13 #2
“I don’t know, I swear.” Ruby stares down at the table, then adds, “That man said they’re watching me, that they know Robby was at my house.”
“You’re not staying alone tonight,” I say, because there’s no version of tonight where I let her sit in that house by herself, knowing men are circling. But Ruby’s shoulders go tight before the echo of my words even dies, and I know this isn’t going to be simple.
Her head comes up. “What does that mean?”
“Means just what I said.” I hold eye contact with her.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she says.
“Oh boy,” London mutters.
I lean in just enough for Ruby to feel it. “A man put his hands on you and admitted people are watching your house,” I say. “I’m deciding plenty.”
The air in the bar goes tight, as if everyone can feel the heat that jumps between us.
I drop my voice. “You can be pissed all you want, but this isn’t up for debate.”
“Who’s gonna stay with me? You?” Ruby huffs in frustration.
“Yep.”
Her breath catches, then she opens her pretty little mouth to protest, but doesn’t get to say whatever is on her mind.
Riggs clears his throat, cutting the moment clean. “Ruby. Choices are your place with Catcher on watch, Catcher’s place above the bar, or the clubhouse with Catcher.”
“My house,” she says immediately.
London squeezes her hand. “I’ll drive you home.”
Ruby looks at me. She exhales, her lips parting about to argue again, but doesn’t.
Everest appears. “Trash is gone.”
Riggs looks at him. “Ride with Catcher back to Ruby’s.”
We move fast after that.
Ruby says goodbye to the women. Luna hugs her. Promise says something low that makes Ruby nod, and London keeps one arm around her.
London’s car pulls out first, Ruby in the passenger seat staring forward through the windshield, shoulders tight. I ride behind them, Everest on his bike beside me, both of us watching mirrors and side streets. I keep my eyes moving, but my head keeps circling the same thing—Ruby.
Men like that don’t walk into an MC-owned bar and put their hands on a woman unless they’re stupid, desperate, or sent by someone who thinks they’re untouchable.
We’ll find Robby. That much is already decided.
But Ruby is in the middle of it now, and the part of me that knows I should keep distance is getting drowned out by the part that wants to put every threat through a wall until nothing bad can reach her.
That’s dangerous, more for me than for her.
We reach her house a few minutes later, and London parks in the driveway. I pull in behind her and kill the engine. Everest does the same beside me. We get off our bikes and glance around before motioning for the women to get out of the car.
Ruby steps out, hugging herself again, and that makes my jaw flex and my gut coil. I don’t like her sense of security being fucked with.
London says something to her, then walks toward me while Ruby waits near the porch.
“She’s scared,” London says low, stopping close enough that Ruby won’t hear.
“I know.”
London’s eyes narrow. “Don’t be a dick to her tonight. She doesn’t need cold, broody bullshit right now.”
That lands harder than I want it to because I’ve already put her through enough. “I won’t.”
She studies me, deciding whether to believe it. “Don’t make me have to kick your balls into your throat. Got it?”
I feel my lip twitch. If there’s ever a woman who thinks her balls are bigger than a man’s, it’s London, and I respect that about her. She’s loyal as fuck, and Ruby deserves a friend like that.
I turn toward the house before she can say more.
“Stay with them. I’m gonna walk the property,” I tell Everest.
He nods and positions himself near the porch while I walk the perimeter, finding nothing disturbed. When I come back around, I hold out my hand and wait for Ruby to hand over the house key.
I step in first. Inside smells like a home. Like clean laundry and the faint sweetness of flowers with a hint of vanilla.
I move through the house as I would any place I need to protect, except every detail hits harder because it belongs to Ruby. There are photographs on shelves, a throw blanket over the couch, and books stacked unevenly on a small table.
Life.
Hers.
I come back to the living room, where Ruby stands with London and Everest. “All good,” I tell Everest, and he nods.
London hugs Ruby, tight and long. Then she turns to me, gives me one last look that says she’ll gut me herself if I screw this up, and walks out with Everest.
I lock the door behind them. Turn the deadbolt.
Check it once. Then again. The click sounds too small for how hard my pulse is still beating.
When I turn around, Ruby is in the middle of the room, arms crossed tightly, shoulders drawn in like she’s holding herself together by force.
She looks tired and pissed off. Something in my chest pulls hard at the sight.
She looks too breakable and proud all at once, and that combination is a goddamn hazard to a man like me.
I slowly cross the room, more careful than I’ve ever been in a fight, and stop close enough for the space between us to turn hot and difficult.
The house is quiet, except for the sound of both of us breathing.
Her chin tips up, refusing to give an inch, but I see the strain under it, the fine tension around her mouth, the way her fingers bite into her own arms. She doesn’t want me here.
“I’m going to change,” she says, voice quieter now, roughened at the edges. Her eyes hold mine when she adds, “I can still smell him.”
Her words hit like a match to gasoline. For one brutal second, all I can think about is dragging that bastard back out of the hospital and finishing what I started.
My hands flex at my sides, knuckles tight, old violence waking up in me as if it never went to sleep.
But she’s standing right here, and this isn’t about what I want to break.
It’s about what she needs. I force the rage down and make myself stay still. Barely.
“Go,” I say, my voice low enough to scrape. “I’ll be right here.”
She heads toward the hall, then pauses with her hand on the doorway. “If you’re hungry, there’s leftover jambalaya in the fridge. My mom made it.” She continues, then pauses again. “And Catcher?” My name in her voice does something I don’t let show.
“Yeah.”
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For… being here tonight.”
I’m not expecting her to say those words when they land heavily in my chest. I want to tell her no one touches her again. Not while I’m breathing. Instead, I nod. Words are dangerous, and mine have already hurt her more than once.
She watches me for a second, then disappears down the hall.
I’m not hungry. Instead, I pace the living room, taking in the pictures on her shelves of Ruby with an older woman who has her eyes and her mouth, a younger man with a reckless grin and his arm slung around Ruby’s shoulders.
I stare at that one the longest. Then I move to the window and pull the curtains back just enough to look out at the dark street and porch lights glowing. Nothing is moving that shouldn’t be.
I stay there, eyes sharp and watching. I hear water running somewhere down the hall and soft footsteps.
Several minutes later, when Ruby comes back into the room, I turn.
Ruby stands at the edge of the room in a tank top and pajama shorts, hair piled loose on top of her head, face washed clean, no makeup, no armor.
She’s holding a pillow and a folded blanket against her chest. She looks younger this way.
My eyes drag over her before I can stop them, and I hate myself a little for it, because she’s had a shit night, and I’m standing here noticing bare legs and other curves of her body like some starving bastard.
She crosses to the couch and sets the blanket down. “You can sleep here,” she says. “Or sit in the dark and brood all night.”
I blink, and a rough breath leaves me.
The awkwardness settles back in after that. Heavy and full of everything we’re not saying. That morning, the grocery store, tonight. The way I keep showing up even after telling myself I won’t.
“I’m going to bed,” she says.
“Lock your door,” I tell her.
Her gaze snaps up, sharp. Something flashes there—no fear, just challenge. “This is my house.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t order me around in it.”
I hold her stare. “Lock your door anyway.” For a second, I think she’ll fight me for it. Then her shoulders drop, just a little.
“Goodnight, Catcher.”
“Night.”
She turns and walks down the hall, and I listen until her door closes. Then I sit on the couch in the dark. Not under the blanket. Not with my boots off. Just sitting, elbows on my knees, hands clasped, and eyes on the front window.
The house settles around me with the hum of the refrigerator and the faint creaking of old wood. None of it is loud, but it’s all there, reminding me I’m in someone else’s life, in someone else’s safe place, trying to hold the line.
My thoughts don’t settle with it. They prowl past to present, a grave up north to a woman asleep down the hall, blood on my hands years ago to blood on my hands tonight.
Trouble is coming. I can feel it the way a man feels bad weather in old bones before the sky even turns. It sits in my gut, making the house feel too quiet, and the dark outside feels like it’s waiting on something.
And for the first time in a long damn while, I don’t want to put miles between the one person getting under my skin and me.
That truth hits harder than I care to admit.
It’s got me sitting here in the dark, jaw tight, hands locked together hard enough they ache, and if I loosen up even a little, something honest might get out.
I can’t decide if being here makes me the wall between her and what’s coming, or just another man dragging danger to her door.