Page 13 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

"Is spite," she finishes. "Spite and survival. You taught me that."

"I taught you loyalty!" he roars.

"You taught me pain," she corrects.

She feints left, spins right.

Her blade finds the gap in his armor.

Slides between plates like coming home.

He gasps, stumbles.

But catches her wrist.

Pulls her close.

" Mi dragoncita ," he whispers. "You were supposed to be perfect."

"Nobody's perfect," she whispers back. "You taught me that too."

She twists the knife.

He drops.

This time for good.

She stands over him, bloody and breathing hard.

Something passes across her face.

Not relief.

Not satisfaction.

Loss, maybe.

Or recognition of what she's finally cut free from.

"Scarlett!" I shout.

The Three Devils' president, Butcher, has a gun to Mel's head.

When did?—

"Drop the weapons or she eats a bullet!" Butcher yells.

Everyone freezes.

Mexican standoff in the truest sense.

"Let her go," I call out. "She's got nothing to do with this."

"She's with the Iron Veins. That's enough for me," Butcher says.

"Then take me. VP for an ol’ lady. Fair trade," I offer.

"Jagger, no," Scarlett breathes.

But I'm already moving.

Hands up.

Walking forward.

"That's it," Butcher grins. "Nice and easy."

I get within arm's reach.

See Scarlett shifting in my peripheral.

Trust her timing.

Trust her aim.

Trust her.

"Now," I whisper.

She draws and fires in one motion.

The bullet passes so close I feel it kiss my cheek, finding Butcher's eye.

It drops him instantly.

Mel screams through the duct tape and falls forward, but she’s alive.

The warehouse erupts again.

But the Three Devils are shaken.

Their president's down.

Their numbers are thinning.

"Pull back!" someone shouts.

They retreat, dragging bodies.

Leaving their dead.

My brothers start to run after them, but I call them off.

"Let them go. We've got what we came for," I order.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Bodies everywhere.

Blood painting abstract art on concrete.

And in the center, Scarlett standing over Diego's corpse.

"Is he—?" I ask.

"Very," she confirms.

"You okay?" I check.

"No." She looks at me then. "But I'm alive."

I cross to her, checking her wounds.

Her shoulder's bad but not fatal.

She has various cuts and bruises, but she’s breathing.

"You came back," she says quietly.

"You knew I would," I tell her.

"I hoped," she admits.

"That's new," I observe.

"Yeah, well. You're a bad influence," she says.

Mel whimpers from where she's huddled.

Scarlett kneels beside her, gentle now. "Hey. It's over. You're safe," Scarlett soothes.

"I'm sorry," Mel sobs. "He made me tell him things. About you. About the club."

"Shh. It's okay. Diego's good at making people talk," Scarlett comforts her.

"Is he really dead?" Mel asks.

"Very," Scarlett confirms again.

"Good," Mel says with venom.

Even sweet Mel has limits, apparently.

Sirens are heard in the distance.

"Time to go," Poncho calls.

We move fast.

Loading wounded, and leaving the dead.

Letting the cops sort out the mess.

By the time they arrive, we're ghosts.

Back at the compound, Doc works on our wounded.

Scarlett sits still while he stitches her shoulder.

I hold her hand.

She lets me.

Progress.

"That was fucking insane," Hammer says for the fifth time. "You died. We saw you die."

"Almost died," I correct.

"She stabbed you!" Hammer insists.

"Precisely. Between the ribs. Enough blood to sell it, not enough damage to kill," I explain.

"You trusted her that much?" Joker asks, incredulous.

I look at Scarlett.

She's not looking back, focused on the stitches.

But her hand squeezes mine.

"Yeah. I did," I confirm.

"Crazy bastard," Hammer mutters.

"Always have been and I always will be," I agree.

Squirrel appears, face grim.

"Three Devils?" he asks.

"Down six, including Butcher. They won't move on us again soon," I report.

"And the cartel?" he questions.

"Diego's dead. His crew too. Might buy us time before Sinaloa sends someone else," I inform him.

"Might?" he presses.

"Nothing's certain with the cartel," I admit.

He looks at Scarlett.

"You did this," he states.

"I helped," she says modestly.

"No. You orchestrated it. Every move. Every angle," Squirrel insists.

"Just using what I learned," she deflects.

"Which is?" he asks.

"That sometimes the only way to win is to make everyone else lose worse," she answers.

He considers that.

"You really Vasquez's goddaughter?" he questions.

"Really," she confirms.

"He know you're here?" Squirrel asks.

"Not specifically," she admits.

"Will he come looking?" he presses.

"Eventually. But not for me. For answers about Diego," she explains.

"And what will you tell him?" Squirrel asks.

"That the Three Devils killed him while trying to frame Iron Veins," she states.

"Will he believe it?" he questions.

"With the right evidence? Yes," she says confidently.

"You got evidence?" Squirrel asks.

She pulls out a phone.

Diego's.

"Video of the Three Devils entering the warehouse. Audio of Butcher claiming credit. All time-stamped before Diego died," she explains.

"You recorded the whole thing?" Squirrel asks, impressed.

"I told you. Diego taught me well," she says.

"Too well, maybe," he observes.

"Maybe," she agrees.

Squirrel nods slowly. "All right. You bought us time. Maybe even an advantage. But this ain't over," he warns.

"I know," she acknowledges.

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you just painted a target on every cut in this club, after you’re already responsible for two of my men dyin’," he points out.

"The target was already there. I just gave you ammunition to fire back," she counters.

He leaves without another word.

Approval? Condemnation?

Hard to tell with him.

"That was smooth," I tell her. "The recording."

"Always have three plans. Diego's rule number seven," she quotes.

"How many rules were there?" I ask.

"Forty-two. Though I broke most of them tonight," she admits.

"Which ones?" I'm curious.

"Don't get attached. Don't hesitate. Don't let emotion cloud judgment." She looks at our joined hands. "Don't save the enemy's friends."

"I'm the enemy?" I ask.

"You were," she says softly.

"And now?" I press.

"Now you're... complicated," she admits.

Doc finishes the stitches.

"Keep it clean. Try not to tear them doing anything stupid," Doc instructs.

"Define stupid," Scarlett mutters.

"Anything involving him." Doc points at me.

"Then I'm definitely tearing them," she says.

Doc finishes with Scarlett's shoulder, then turns to me.

"Your turn," he says. "Shirt off."

I peel off my blood-soaked shirt, revealing the wound between my ribs.

"Christ," Doc mutters. "She really did stab you."

"Precisely," I confirm. "Missed everything important."

"By about two millimeters," he observes, cleaning the wound. "Either she's incredibly skilled or incredibly lucky."

"Skilled," Scarlett says. "Lucky would've been missing him entirely."

Doc starts stitching, and I grip the table edge.

"Hurts?" he asks.

"I've had worse," I say through gritted teeth.

"Haven't we all," Scarlett murmurs, watching him work.

When he's done, we're both stitched and bandaged.

Matching wounds from different battles.

"Keep them clean. Try not to tear them doing anything stupid," Doc instructs.

"Define stupid," Jagger mutters.

"Anything involving him." Doc points at me.

"Then I'm definitely tearing them," she says.

Doc rolls his eyes and leaves us alone.

"We should talk," I say.

"Should we?" she asks.

"About what comes next. About us," I elaborate.

"Us." She tests the word. "When did we become an 'us'?"

"Somewhere between you stabbing me and saving Mel," I answer.

"That's very specific," she observes.

"I'm a specific kind of guy," I tell her.

She stands, winces slightly. "I need a shower. A real one. And sleep. And maybe a bottle of whiskey," she lists.

"Scarlett—" I start.

"I know what you want to talk about. The feelings. The future. The way we can't seem to stop saving each other." She heads for the door. "But not tonight. Tonight I just want to wash my trainer's blood off and pretend I'm not relieved he's dead."

"Are you? Relieved?" I ask.

She pauses. "I thought I'd feel... more. Satisfaction, maybe. Or closure. Instead I just feel empty," she admits.

"That's normal," I assure her.

"Is it? Is any of this normal?" she asks.

"No. But that's kind of our thing, isn't it? Nothing about us has ever been normal," I point out.

"True," she agrees.

"Go shower. Sleep. We'll deal with tomorrow when it comes," I tell her.

She nods and leaves.

I sit in the empty medical room, trying to process everything.

Diego's dead.

The Three Devils are crippled, without leadership.

Scarlett chose us—chose me —over her original mission.

And somewhere in all that violence and chaos, we became something more than enemies playing at lovers.

We became partners.

Maybe more.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

I almost don't answer.

Then think fuck it.

What's one more problem?

"Yeah?" I answer.

"Senor Morales?" The voice is cultured, calm. Dangerous.

"Who's asking?" I respond cautiously.

"My name is Mateo. I represent Eduardo Vasquez. I believe you know his goddaughter?" the man says.

My blood chills.

"What about her?" I ask.

"He would like to speak with her. And you. Tomorrow. Noon. I'll send coordinates," Mateo informs me.

"And if we're busy?" I test.

"Then he'll be... disappointed. And Senor Vasquez's disappointment tends to be fatal," he warns.

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone.

Tomorrow.

Eduardo fucking Vasquez wants a meeting.

The plaza boss.

The man whose nephew I killed.

Whose goddaughter I've been fucking.

Whose man just died on my watch.

"Fuck," I mutter. "Fuck!"

Poncho sticks his head in. "Problem?"

"Yeah. Remember when I said we bought time?" I ask him.

"Yeah?" he responds.

"I was wrong. We've got less than twenty-four hours before the real boss shows up," I inform him.

"The cartel?" Poncho asks.

"Eduardo Vasquez himself," I confirm.

Poncho goes pale.

Well, paler.

"We're fucked," he states.

"Maybe. Maybe not," I say, trying to stay optimistic.

"How do you figure?" he asks.

"Scarlett's his goddaughter. That will be in our favor." I reason.

"Or make it worse. Family business is personal business," Poncho points out.

He's not wrong.

I head to my room, find Scarlett already in my shower.

Steam billowing out.

Water running pink with blood.

I strip and join her without asking.

She doesn't protest.

Just leans back against me like she's too tired to stand alone.

"Eduardo called," I say.

"I know. I got the same call," she reveals.

"Tomorrow," I state.

"I know," she acknowledges.

"Any chance he doesn't kill us?" I ask.

"There's always a chance. Just not a good one," she admits.

"What do we do?" I ask.

"We go. We explain. We hope blood means more than business," she says.

"And if it doesn't?" I press.

"Then we die together. Isn't that what you wanted? Mutual destruction?" she asks.

"I was thinking more along the lines of mutual survival now," I correct.

"Romantic," she observes.

"Something like that," I agree.

She turns in my arms and looks up at me with those amber eyes that started all this. "I'm sorry," she says quietly.

"For?" I ask.

"Everything. My father. The war. Diego. Mel. The fact that tomorrow my godfather might skin you alive," she lists.

"I'm not," I tell her.

"No?" she questions.

"No. Because all of it led here. To this. To us," I explain.

"Still thinking there's an 'us'?" she asks.

"I claimed you, didn't I? In front of my whole club. Made you my ol’ lady. That means something," I remind her.

"It means you're possessive," she counters.

"It means you're mine. And I protect what's mine," I correct.

"Even from Eduardo Vasquez?" she asks.

"Even from God himself if necessary," I declare.

She kisses me then.

Soft and sweet and nothing like us at all.

"You're going to get yourself killed being noble," she warns.

"Probably. But what a way to go," I say.

We stay under the water until it runs cold.

Then fall into bed like casualties.

She curls against me, careful of both our wounds.

"Jagger?" she says.

"Yeah?" I respond.

"Thank you. For trusting me. For coming back. For not being the monster I needed you to be," she says softly.

"You're welcome. And Scarlett?" I add.

"Mm?" she murmurs.

"Thank you for not being the weapon I was afraid you were," I tell her.

"Oh, I'm still a weapon. Just pointed in a different direction now," she corrects.

"At?" I ask.

"Anyone who tries to hurt what's mine," she states.

"Thought you didn't believe in ownership," I remind her.

"I'm learning," she admits.

We drift off tangled together.

Tomorrow we face the devil.

But tonight?

Tonight we're just two damaged people who somehow found something worth saving in each other.

Even if it kills us.

Especially if it kills us.

Because some things are worth dying for.

And against all odds, all logic, all sense...

We might just be one of them.