Page 2 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Jagger

Present Day…

I wake up with her father's blood on my hands again.

Not literally.

That was five years ago.

But every morning at 4 AM, my body jerks awake with the phantom weight of Miguel Delgado's last breath rattling through my trigger finger.

The sheets are soaked with sweat.

My St. Michael pendant sticks to my chest like a brand.

I sit up, scrubbing my face, and reach for the bottle of Jameson on my nightstand.

The whiskey burns away the taste of guilt, but nothing touches the image burned into my retinas.

Her eyes—Scarlett Maria Delgado's eyes, amber like expensive whiskey, staring at me over her father's corpse.

She should have been crying. Screaming. Begging.

Instead, she looked at me like she was memorizing my soul so she could rip it apart later.

I still remember her words: "I'm going to take it all away, piece by piece, until you're begging me to put a bullet in your head."

A nineteen-year-old college girl shouldn't have been able to make that threat sound like a blood oath, but she did.

And for five years, I've been waiting for her to make good on it.

My phone buzzes.

Church in twenty. Emergency meeting.

I roll out of bed, muscles protesting from yesterday's enforcement run.

A few of the Three Devils MC thought they could cook meth in our territory.

Now they're learning different lessons in whatever afterlife takes men like us.

The shower goes cold—punishment I deserve.

I let it punish me while I catalog my sins.

Miguel Delgado. Jorge Ramirez. Tommy Walsh. Roberto Vega.

Names of dead men who visit me at 4 AM.

But it's only Delgado's daughter who haunts me.

Only her promise follows me into consciousness.

Little dragon.

I dress in the dark—jeans, boots, black thermal, leather cut with my VP patch.

The weight of the leather settles across my shoulders like armor or a shroud.

The compound is quiet except for the prospects on gate duty.

They nod as I pass, recognizing the insomnia that comes with wet work.

Kill enough men, and sleep becomes negotiable.

The chapel doors are already open.

Squirrel's massive frame takes up the president's chair, his scarred face set in hard lines.

Digger, our sergeant-at-arms, leans against the wall, cleaning his nails with a butterfly knife.

Hammer, Mouse, Poncho, and the others fill in around the table.

But it's the man standing in the corner that makes my hand drift to my Glock.

Joaquin Morales. Los Lobos cartel.

The man who brokers our deals with the Sinaloa.

"Jagger." Squirrel's voice carries the weight of bad news. "Sit."

I take my place at his right hand, eyes never leaving Joaquin.

The cartel doesn't make house calls unless someone's fucked up, or unless they want something.

"Brothers," Squirrel starts, "we have a situation."

Joaquin steps forward, gold teeth flashing in the candlelight.

We keep the chapel dark, lit only by candles.

Some say it's tradition. I think we just like conducting our sins in appropriate lighting.

"The Delgado debt," Joaquin says, and my blood turns to ice.

It's been five years since I put a bullet in Miguel Delgado's head.

The debt was paid.

The cartel got their money back from his accounts.

Case closed.

"What about it?" I keep my voice steady. "Miguel had a brother. Pablo. Ran girls in Culiacán."

Joaquin's smile is all predator. "Seems Pablo developed expensive tastes. Gambling. Cocaine. Younger women. Owes us two million."

"Not our problem," Digger growls.

"It is now." Joaquin snaps his fingers.

The chapel doors open.

Two sicarios drag in a figure with a black hood over their head.

Female, based on the curves beneath the torn clothing.

Hands zip-tied behind her back.

Blood on her bare feet.

They shove her to her knees in front of the table.

"Pablo couldn't pay," Joaquin continues. "But he had something else to trade. A niece. Miguel's daughter."

No. My hand finds my St. Michael pendant without thinking.

"The college girl?" Squirrel frowns. "What use is she?"

"Pablo says she knows where Miguel hid more money. Insurance files. Routes." Joaquin nods to his men. "Consider her payment for her uncle's debt. Do what you want with her. Break her. Sell her. Kill her. Just get the information first."

One of the sicarios reaches for the hood.

I already know what I'll see, but knowledge doesn't prepare me for the impact.

The hood comes off.

Scarlett Delgado kneels on our chapel floor, and she's nothing like the terrified college girl from five years ago.

Her hair is longer, wilder.

Her body is lean muscle wrapped in torn jeans and a blood-stained Poncho top.

There are scars now—a knife wound across her collarbone, what looks like a bullet graze on her shoulder.

But it's her eyes that stop my heart.

The same amber fire, but refined now. Focused.

She looks up through the tangled hair, and her gaze finds mine immediately.

Like she knew exactly where I'd be sitting.

A smile ghosts across her split lips. "Hello, Jagger."

Two words.

That's all it takes for every brother in the room to know there's history here.

"You know her?" Squirrel's voice carries an edge.

"I killed her father."

"Ah." He leans back. "Small world."

"The smallest," Scarlett agrees, voice hoarse but steady.

Digger moves closer, circling her like a shark. "Pretty little thing. Bit roughed up, but nothing that won't heal." He grabs her chin, forcing her head back. "Question is, does she know anything useful, or is Uncle Pablo full of shit?"

She spits in his face.

Blood and saliva hit him right in the eye.

The backhand comes fast, snapping her head to the side.

She takes it without a sound, then looks back at me.

Still smiling.

"Feisty." Digger wipes his face. "I like breaking the feisty ones. Give me a week with her, I'll have her telling us everything."

"Or," Poncho suggests, "we could pass her around. Let the whole club have a turn. Amazing what a woman will say after a few days in the kennels."

My hands clench into fists under the table.

The kennels are what we call the basement rooms, where we keep people who need persuading.

Concrete walls to muffle screams.

Drains in the floor for easy cleanup.

The thought of her down there, of them touching her?—

"I call first rights," Hammer cuts in. "Always wanted to fuck cartel royalty."

"Get in line." Mouse laughs. "Though there might not be much left after Digger's done with his breaking."

They're all talking about her like she's meat.

Like she's already screaming on their hooks.

And through it all, she keeps looking at me.

Waiting.

That same patient stare from five years ago.

"Well, VP?" Squirrel turns to me. "You killed her father. Seems fitting you get first crack at the daughter."

This is it.

The moment she's been waiting for.

Five years of planning, and she's exactly where she wants to be.

I can see it in her eyes—the calculation, the way she wants to rip me to shreds.

She didn't get caught. She got delivered.

"No," I say. The room goes quiet.

"No?" Squirrel's eyebrow raises.

I stand, decision made before I fully understand it.

"She's mine."

"Yours to break?" Digger asks hopefully.

"Mine. Period."

I move around the table, crouch in front of her. "You want to know what her father told her? What she might know? Give her to me."

"And if she doesn't talk?" I study her face, seeing the changes up close and personal.

The hardness that wasn't there before.

The scars that speak of violence survived.

The complete lack of fear despite being surrounded by men discussing her rape and murder.

"She'll talk."

"Brother," Squirrel says carefully, "you sure about this? You seem... invested."

I stand, pulling her up by the arm. "Miguel Delgado haunts me. Maybe finishing what I started will help me sleep."

It's the truth, just not the way they think.

"Take her then." Squirrel waves his hand. "But I want results, Jagger. Information or blood. Preferably both."

"You'll get them." I cut her zip ties with my knife, noting how she doesn't flinch when the blade comes close.

Her wrists are raw, bleeding, but she doesn't make a sound.

"Can you walk?" She tests her legs, wobbles slightly.

"I can crawl if you prefer," she says sweetly. "I know men like you enjoy that."

Digger laughs. "Fuck, I like her. Sure you don't want to share, Jagger?"

"Touch her and I'll cut your hands off."

The words come out before I can stop them.

Too possessive. Too revealing.

Squirrel's eyes narrow. "Get her out of here," he orders. "Before this becomes a problem."

I grab Scarlett's arm and steer her toward the door.

She comes willingly, almost eagerly.

As we pass Joaquin, he grabs her other arm. "Remember, puta . We want what your father stole. Names, routes, locations. You talk, maybe you live. You don't..." He shrugs. "There are worse things than death."

She leans into him, and for a second I think she's going to collapse.

Instead, she whispers something in Spanish too low for me to catch.

Joaquin's face goes white.

He releases her like she's burned him.

"What did you say to him?" I demand once we're outside. "I told him my godfather sends his regards."

"Your godfather?"

She looks up at me, amber eyes bright with something that might be madness. Or victory.

"Eduardo Vasquez. You know, the plaza boss whose nephew you murdered?" She laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Did you really think you were killing just any cartel thief, Jagger? Or that I was just any college girl?"

"Fuck."

"The only reason he hasn't dragged me back to Mexico is because I've been feeding him updates. Playing the traumatized goddaughter who needs time to heal. Buying myself space to plan."

Fuck. I push her toward my room, mind racing.

This isn't a debt collection. This is a chess move.

And I'm just now realizing I've been playing on her board all along.

My room is at the back of the compound, separated from the others.

VP privileges—privacy for the wet work confessions and the screams that follow me home.