Page 5 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

I reach past him, pull out the box I spotted while cataloging hiding spots. "Obsession, Jagger. Or guilt. Maybe both."

The box contains exactly what I said. Plus things I didn't expect.

My Berkeley ID card—how did he get that?

A pressed vanilla flower from my father's grave.

The obituary, worn soft from handling.

But it's the photos that stop my heart.

Not newspaper photos. Personal ones.

Me at coffee shops. Me at my legal clinic. Me laughing with classmates.

Living my life while he watched from the shadows.

"This is..." I trail off. "Sick? Twisted? Proof I'm exactly the monster you think I am?"

"Thorough."

I set the box down carefully. "You've been protecting me."

His laugh is bitter. "Protecting. Stalking. The line gets blurry."

"Who was the man who grabbed me outside the library three years ago? The one who ended up in the hospital with a shattered skull?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. "The drug dealer who tried to roofie me at that frat party?"

Silence. "The Norteno who figured out who my father was and came looking for payback?"

"He would have hurt you." The words come out rough. "They all would have hurt you."

"So you hurt them first."

"Yes."

"Why?" He grabs the box, shoves it back under the bed. "Your father asked me to protect you. Last wish of a dying man."

"And you always honor dying wishes?"

"I try."

"Bullshit." I push into his space, making him look at me. "You protected me because you couldn't let anyone else touch what you consider yours. Because in your twisted mind, I belong to you. Have since the moment you let me live."

His hand is in my hair before I finish. Yanking my head back. Exposing my throat. "Careful, little dragon. You're playing with fire."

"I've been burning for five years." I bare my teeth. "What's a little more heat?" He kisses me.

No—kisses is too gentle a word.

He devours me.

All that obsession, all that guilt, all that desire pouring out through his mouth into mine.

I taste whiskey and violence and five years of frustrated desire.

My body responds without permission.

Muscle memory from dreams where I killed him slowly takes a different turn.

His hands are rough, desperate.

Mine are calculating, cataloging.

The knife in his boot.

The gun at his hip.

The way his breath catches when I bite his lip.

All useful information for later.

He pushes me against the wall, and I let him.

Let him think he's in control.

His mouth moves to my throat, and I moan like I'm supposed to.

Like I learned to do when Diego first taught me how bodies could be weapons.

But this is different.

This feels different.

Because under the performance, something real sparks.

Something I didn't plan for.

"Stop," I gasp.

He freezes immediately. Steps back. And that tells me more than any kiss could.

He wants me, but he wants me willingly. Interesting weakness.

"I'm not going to be another conquest," I say, straightening his shirt. "Another notch on your bedpost."

"You're not?—"

"I'm exactly that. Or I would be, if I let you continue." I move to his bed, sit down primly. "So let's discuss rules."

"Rules?"

"You have me. Congratulations. The question is what you're going to do with me."

He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting its careful styling. "The club expects me to break you. Get information."

"So break me." I shrug. "Or pretend to. I'll scream very convincingly."

"You'd fake torture?"

"I've survived the real thing. Faking it is easy."

"What about the information? Los Lobos won't wait forever."

"Lucky for you, I actually have what they want." I examine my nails, noting blood under them. His blood, from where I scratched. "Routes my father used. Stash houses he set up. Account numbers for money he hid."

"You'd give that up?"

"I'd trade it. Information for protection. Seems fair."

"What kind of protection?"

"Keep the other brothers away from me. Keep Los Lobos from taking me back. Let me stay here, in this room, until I figure out my next move."

"And in return?"

"I'll play your broken toy. Tell you enough truth to keep everyone happy. Share my father's secrets slowly, so you maintain value to both club and cartel." I meet his eyes. "I'll even warm your bed, if you ask nicely."

"I don't want?—"

" Yes, you do." I pull his shirt over my head, sit there in my underwear. "You've wanted it for five years. Dreamed about it. Jerked off thinking about it."

His jaw clenches.

"But here's the thing, Jagger. I've wanted it too." The admission surprises us both. "I've hated you and wanted you at the same time. Planned your death while touching myself. Came thinking about your blood on my hands."

"Jesus Christ."

"He can't help either of us." I lie back on his bed, arching slightly. "So what's it going to be? Do we pretend this isn't happening? Or do we admit we're both fucked up enough to want it?"

He's on me before I finish. Different this time. Slower.

Like he's trying to memorize me.

His hands trace my scars, and I tell him the lies about each one.

But then he finds the bullet scar near my heart. Kisses it soft enough to break me.

"Who?" He asks against my skin.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Someone who thought I was my father's weakness." Truth, twisted. "They were wrong."

"I would have killed them."

"I did."

He looks up at that. Sees something in my face that makes him pull back. "How old were you?"

"Nineteen."

"Christ."

"Wrong deity again." I pull him back down. "Less talking. More showing me what five years of twisted obsession feels like."

But he doesn't move. Just stares at me like I'm a puzzle missing pieces. "What happened to you?"

"You did." I trace the scar through his eyebrow. "Everything I am started with you."

"That's not?—"

"You created me, Jagger. That night in my father's office. You looked at a nineteen-year-old girl and decided she was worth more alive than dead." I wrap my legs around him. "Now deal with the consequences."

This time, when he kisses me, it's desperate.

Like he's trying to find the girl I was in the woman I've become.

She's not there.

I killed her myself, slowly, over the years of training.

But I let him look. Let him map my body like it might hold answers.

His hands are needy now, worship where there was possession before.

It's almost enough to make me regret what's coming. Almost.

A knock interrupts us. "Food," someone calls through the door. Jagger pulls away, adjusts himself. "Leave it outside."

"Squirrel says to bring the girl. Wants to see her eat."

Power play. Making sure I'm not too comfortable.

"Give us five."

"Now, brother." He looks at me, and I can see him weighing options.

"I need clothes," I point out. "Unless you want me walking through your clubhouse in underwear."

He goes to his dresser, pulls out sweatpants and a tank top.

Both are too big, but they'll do. I dress quickly, noting how he watches.

Still hard. Still wanting. Good.

"Remember," he says as we reach the door. "You're broken. Scared. Mine."

"Aren't I?"

He doesn't answer.

The common room is full of brothers, all watching as we enter. I shrink against Jagger, play the terrified victim.

Someone whistles low. "Damn, VP. You work fast." I recognize Poncho's voice. "See you already marked her up nice. Throat's looking purple."

Jagger's hand tightens on my arm. "She's learning her place."

"Good. Hate to see all that pretty go to waste in the kennels." The threat hangs in the air.

Squirrel sits at the head of a long table, president's patch gleaming. "Sit," he orders.

Jagger takes a chair. I start to take the one beside him.

"Not you," Squirrel says. "Floor. Dogs don't get chairs."

The room goes quiet, waiting.

This is another test.

I drop gracefully to my knees beside Jagger's chair.

Rest my cheek against his thigh like I'm seeking comfort.

Feel his muscles tense under my touch.

"Better," Squirrel approves. "Now, let's discuss what your pet knows about her daddy's business."

A plate appears in front of me. Eggs, bacon, toast. More food than I've seen in days.

My stomach growls, betraying real hunger.

"Can I?" I look up at Jagger, playing the submissive perfectly.

He nods. I eat with my hands, making it degrading. Making them think I'm already broken to this level.

"She says she has information," Jagger reports. "Routes. Stash houses. Accounts."

"Does she now?" Squirrel leans forward. "And she'll share this willingly?"

"For the right incentive."

"Which is?"

"Protection. She talks, but stays under my protection. No kennels. No sharing."

"That's a big ask for unproven intel."

"Then let me prove it," I say softly.

All eyes turn to me.

"You speak when spoken to," Digger snarls.

But Squirrel holds up a hand. "Let her talk."

I straighten slightly, still on my knees. "There's a stash house in Modesto. 1847 Carpenter Road. Blue shutters. Key's under a fake rock by the back door."

I rattle off details like I'm reciting a grocery list. "Should find about three hundred grand in cash, vacuum sealed in the deep freeze. Plus maybe fifty kilos of uncut heroin in the basement ceiling tiles."

Silence.

Then Squirrel starts laughing. "Well, shit. Little princess might be useful after all." He looks at Jagger. "Take Chord and Ripper. Check it out. If she's lying, she goes to the kennels. If she's telling the truth..."

"She stays under my protection," Jagger finishes.

"For now."

It's not perfect, but it's progress.

"Thank you," I whisper, pressing closer to Jagger's leg.

Playing the grateful prisoner.

His hand drops to my hair, an absent petting motion.

Like I really am his dog.

The gesture should enrage me.

Instead, it sends heat through my belly, because I know something he doesn't.

That stash house? It's real. But it's also trapped.

Silent alarms that will alert certain people when it's breached.

People who will be very interested to know the Iron Veins MC is moving on Sinaloa territory.

People who answer to me.

"Eat up, princess," Squirrel orders. "Gonna need your strength for what's coming."

I obey, playing my part. But inside, I'm counting moves ahead.

Jagger thinks he owns me. The club thinks I'm breaking. They're both wrong.

I'm exactly where I need to be.

And in approximately six hours, when they breach that stash house, the next phase begins.

I hide my smile against Jagger's thigh.

He absently strokes my hair again.

If only he knew he was petting a viper.

One that's been planning this moment for five years.

His hand tightens suddenly, and I wonder if he suspects.

If some part of him recognizes the predator at his feet. But then he's pulling me up, leading me back to his room. "That was well played," he says once we're alone.

"I don't know what you mean."

"The submission. The information. All of it."

"Maybe I'm just trying to survive."

"Maybe." He backs me against the door. "Or maybe you're playing a game I don't understand yet."

"Would it matter if I was?"

His hand wraps around my throat, gentle but present. "Everything about you matters. That's the problem."

"Your problem, not mine."

" Our problem," he corrects. "Because whatever game you're playing, I'm already in it. Have been since I pulled that trigger."

"Then you should know," I lean into his grip, "I play to win."

"So do I."

"Good." I smile, sharp and dangerous. "It's no fun if it's too easy."

He kisses me again, brutal and claiming.

I kiss back with five years of hate and want.

We're both going to burn for this.

The only question is who lights the match first.

But as he pushes me toward the bed, as I calculate angles and advantages, I realize something.

The match is already lit.

It has been since that night in my father's office.

We're just dancing in the flames now, seeing who burns first.

My money's still on him, but for the first time in five years, I'm not entirely sure. And that terrifies me more than any chain ever could.