Page 4 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

CHAPTER TWO

Scarlett

The chain around my ankle is insulting.

Not because it's degrading—degradation was lesson number three in Culiacán.

But because it's a standard hardware store model.

Pickable in thirty seconds with a hairpin.

Twenty if I'm motivated.

The fact that Jagger thinks this would hold me tells me he hasn't been paying attention.

Or maybe he has, and this is his first test.

I catalog his room while he watches from his chair, pretending to doze.

His breathing's too controlled for sleep.

His grip on the Glock too ready.

Amateur.

Diego would have put a bullet in him already for such obvious tells.

My hand drifts to my throat, finding the chain with Papa's ring.

The metal is cold against my skin, and for a moment—just a moment—my vision blurs.

Not now, I tell myself, blinking hard. Not here.

I turn toward the window, pretending to study the compound layout while I force the grief back into its cage.

Five years, and it still ambushes me when I least expect it.

The room itself is a shrine to organized violence.

Weapons mounted on the walls like other men hang family photos.

A Remington 700 sniper rifle—the action's been worked on, probably drops targets at a thousand yards.

Various handguns, all clean, all loaded.

Knives arranged by size and purpose.

No trophies though.

No souvenirs from kills.

That's interesting.

Either he's not sentimental, or he keeps his trophies elsewhere.

The morning sun creeps through barred windows, and I get my first good look at him in five years.

He's harder now.

The pretty boy edges I remember have been carved away by violence and insomnia.

Still beautiful though.

Still, the kind of man who makes smart girls stupid.

Good thing I haven't been smart in years.

"Enjoying the view?" His eyes open, dark and alert.

Caught me looking.

"Just wondering if you've always been this sloppy, or if it's special for me."

He sits up straighter. "Sloppy?"

"The chain's a joke. Your weapons are all within reach if I extend fully. You sleep with your back to the door." I tick off his failures on my fingers. "Should I continue?"

"Please do."

"You've got a burner phone taped under your nightstand. Cash in the air vent. Fake passport in the Bible on your bookshelf—nice touch with the religious hiding spot, by the way." I lean back against his headboard. "Running money. You're not as committed to this life as you pretend."

His jaw tightens.

Score one for the dead man's daughter.

"Anything else?"

"You touch your pendant before you lie. Your left eye twitches when you're angry. And you've been hard since you chained me to your bed, which makes you either a sadist or deeply fucked up about what happened five years ago."

He's across the room before I finish the sentence.

Hand around my throat. Glock pressed to my temple. "You think you know me?"

"I know you masturbate to my memory." I keep my voice steady despite the pressure on my windpipe. "I know you can't fuck brunettes anymore without seeing my face. I know you wake up at the exact time you pulled the trigger."

His grip tightens. "How?"

"Motel walls are thin. The blonde you brought back three months ago complained you called her Scarlett when you came."

His hand drops like I've burned him. "You've been?—"

"Watching? Following? Studying?" I rub my throat, knowing it'll bruise. "Pick your verb. They're all accurate."

He backs away, and I can see him recalibrating.

Reassessing the threat. Good.

The door rattles under someone's fist. "Jagger! Bring the bitch out. Raven wants a look at her."

Ah. The ol’ ladies. I was wondering when they'd come calling.

"Give me ten minutes," Jagger calls back.

"Now, brother. Prez's orders."

He looks at me, and I see the war in his eyes.

Protect me or throw me to the wolves?

He doesn't know I've already survived worse wolves than these.

"Get dressed," he orders.

"In what? These?" I gesture at my blood-stained clothes.

He tosses me one of his shirts.

Black, soft from washing.

It'll smell like him—leather and whiskey and guilt.

Perfect. I change without ceremony, noting how his eyes track the scars across my ribs.

The shirt falls to mid-thigh, making me look smaller. More vulnerable.

Men always underestimate vulnerable-looking women.

"Leave the chain," the voice outside demands. "She comes free or not at all."

Jagger unlocks my ankle, and I make note of where he keeps the key.

Inside pocket, left side. Close to his heart. How poetic.

The hallway fills with leather and hostility.

Three ol’ ladies wait, each one marked with property patches.

The leader—Raven, I assume—looks like she's survived her own wars.

Bleached hair, hard eyes, ink covering most visible skin.

She's got the thousand-yard stare of a woman who's cleaned blood off her man's hands more than once. "So this is the cartel princess." She circles me like I'm livestock. "Doesn't look like much."

I drop my eyes. Slouch my shoulders. Become the college girl they expect. "Please, I don't know anything. My uncle sold me. I just want to go home."

The backhand comes from the left—the redhead with the secretary patch.

I let it snap my head to the side. Taste blood. Perfect.

"Don't speak unless spoken to, bitch," the redhead spits. "Raven's talking."

"Leave her alone, Tina." The third woman, younger, maybe early twenties, looks uncomfortable.

"She's been through enough."

"Shut up, Mel." Raven doesn't take her eyes off me. "You're too soft for this life."

Interesting dynamics. Alpha bitch, her enforcer, and one with a conscience.

I can work with this.

"Strip," Raven orders.

I glance at Jagger, letting fear flicker across my face. "Do I have to?"

"You do what she says," he grumbles, but I catch the tension in his shoulders.

He doesn't like this.

Good.

I pull off the shirt slowly, making my hands shake.

Stand there in my underwear while they catalog my damage.

"Jesus," Mel breathes. "What happened to her?"

"Life," Raven answers. "Turn around."

I comply, letting them see the full canvas of my education.

Whip marks from Adelina's lessons about endurance.

Knife scars from Carlos teaching me blade work.

Burn marks from when I refused to break during interrogation training. And the centerpiece—Santa Muerte inked between my shoulder blades, her skeleton face serene among the violence.

"That's cartel ink," Tina observes. "High-level shit too. Not just street soldier stuff."

"What were you in Mexico, princess?" Raven asks.

Time for truth wrapped in lies. "I was nobody. Just Miguel Delgado's daughter trying to survive after—" I gesture at Jagger. "After he killed my papa."

"So you ran to Mexico?"

"Where else would I go? My father's family took me in. Tried to keep me safe." I let my voice break. "It didn't work."

"Who did this to you?"

"Los Zetas. Rivals who wanted to hurt my uncle through me." The lie flows easily. "They had me for three days before my family paid ransom."

Even Raven flinches at that.

Los Zetas have a reputation that makes even hardened killers nervous. "And the Santa Muerte?"

"Protection. My aunt said if death already owned me, maybe she'd keep me alive." I force tears. "It didn't work. My uncle sold me anyway."

Mel steps forward. "That's enough, Raven. Look at her. She's been through hell."

"Hell's just beginning, sweetheart." But Raven steps back. "Get dressed."

I pull Jagger's shirt back on, making sure to stumble slightly. Traumatized. Broken. Harmless.

"She can stay," Raven announces. "But she follows the rules. No speaking to brothers without permission. No leaving whatever room she's kept in. No causing trouble."

"And if she does?"

"Then she goes to the kennels." Raven's smile shows teeth. "And trust me, princess, what Los Zetas did will feel like foreplay compared to that."

I shrink into myself. "I understand."

"Good. Jagger, keep your pet on a shorter leash. Next time she spits on a brother, I'll cut out her tongue myself."

They file out, but Mel lingers. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "About your father. About... everything."

I catch her hand. "Thank you. You're the first person to say that in five years."

She squeezes back before Tina drags her away.

And now I have an ally.

Or at least, someone who might become one.

Jagger shuts the door, locks it. "That was quite a performance."

"I don't know what you mean."

"The tears. The trembling. The broken bird act." He leans against the door. "Very convincing."

"Maybe because it's not an act." I sit on his bed, pull my knees to my chest. "Maybe I am just a broken girl trying to survive."

"A broken girl who can catalog my weapons by effective range? Who spots my hidden cash in thirty seconds?"

"Trauma makes you observant."

"Trauma makes you careful. Training makes you observant.

" I let the mask slip slightly. "What do you want me to say?

That I spent five years learning to survive?

That I know seventeen ways to kill you with items in this room?

That the chain on my ankle is decoration because we both know I could leave whenever I want? "

"Then why don't you?"

"Because Pablo didn't sell me. I sold myself." I watch that land, see the confusion in his eyes. "He owes the cartel two million because I made sure he would. Gambling debts to my people. Cocaine habits fed by my suppliers. All leading to this moment."

"You orchestrated your own sale."

"I orchestrated my placement in the one location I needed to be." I stand, move closer to him. "Your room. Your chain. Your protection."

"My protection?"

"You claimed me. That means the others can't touch me without going through you." Closer still, until I can smell his skin. "And you won't let them. Not because you're noble. But because you've been obsessed with me for five years."

"I'm not obsessed?—"

"There's a shrine under your bed." He freezes. "I don't know what?—"

"Newspaper clippings. Photos. The program from my father's funeral."