Page 6 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

CHAPTER THREE

Jagger

Three days later and morning comes like a hangover, sharp and unforgiving.

I haven't moved from the chair.

Haven't stopped watching her sleep.

Haven't stopped thinking about what she said.

"I orchestrated my placement in the one location I needed to be."

The thing is, I believe her.

Five years of watching her from the shadows, and I never saw her watching back.

Never caught her hand in setting this trap.

Which means she's either the best liar I've ever met, or I'm already fucked.

Maybe both.

She stirs in my bed, stretching like a cat who knows she's being watched.

The chain clinks against the metal frame.

A reminder that she's my prisoner.

Except we both know that's bullshit.

"Sleep well?" I ask.

"Like the dead." She sits up, my shirt riding up her thighs. "You?"

"I don't sleep."

"Guilty conscience?"

"Something like that."

She studies me, amber eyes calculating in the morning light.

"You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"When's the last time you ate?"

The question surprises me. "Yesterday. Probably."

"Probably." She shakes her head. "You're falling apart, Jagger. And I haven't even started yet."

My phone buzzes before I can respond.

Joaquin. Cartel's here.

My blood chills.

They don't wait long to inspect their merchandise.

I text Chord:

Change of plans. Squirrel wants me here for the cartel. You and Ripper handle Modesto.

Three dots appear immediately.

Chord:

Copy that. We got this.

I don't like sending them without me, but when the cartel shows up unannounced, the VP doesn't leave.

That's how wars start.

"Get dressed," I order.

"Why?" But she sees my face, reads the tension. "Ah. Meeting time?"

"Something like that."

She stands, sheds my shirt without ceremony.

I should look away.

I don't.

Every scar tells a story she's fed me lies about.

Every mark maps out the weapon she's made herself into.

She takes her time dressing, knowing I'm watching.

Knowing what it does to me.

"Should I look more beaten?" she asks, examining her throat in the mirror. "The bruises are already fading."

"They'll want to see you responsive. Alive. Profitable."

"How disappointing for them." She finger-combs her hair. "I'm worth more dead."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Tell the truth?" She turns to face me. "My death is worth millions to the right people. My godfather would pay just to know who pulled the trigger."

"Eduardo Vasquez."

"You remembered." She smiles, cold and sharp. "Yes. Tío Eduardo loved his nephew. Loves me even more. The only reason he hasn't burned California down looking for me is because he loves me like I’m his true daughter."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I'm explaining the current values of the market, silly." She steps close, too close. "Alive, I'm worth whatever information you can extract. Dead, I'm worth a war."

The door rattles. "Jagger! Bring the merchandise."

Digger's voice, but there's an edge to it.

Fear.

Even he knows not to fuck with the cartel.

I grab Scarlett's arm, then stop.

Look at her.

Really look at her.

"Whatever happens out there?—"

"You'll protect me?" She laughs, bitter as black coffee. "Like you protected my father?"

The words hit like bullets.

I deserve them.

"Stay alive," I manage.

"That's the plan." She pats my cheek, condescending. "Try to keep up."

The common room reeks of tension and testosterone.

Joaquin stands near the bar, flanked by two sicarios .

Young ones, eager to prove themselves.

Their hands hover near their weapons.

Squirrel sits at the head of the table, trying to project power he doesn't quite have.

Not against the cartel.

Digger, Poncho, Hammer, Chord, and the others arrange themselves strategically.

Ready for violence but hoping it doesn't come.

"Ah, the princesa arrives." Joaquin's gold teeth flash. "Come here, mija . Let me see what condition our property is in."

I start to move with her.

"Just the girl," he says.

"She's mine. Where she goes, I go."

"She's yours when I say she's yours." His hand drops to his gun. "Or would you like to discuss ownership?"

The room goes still.

This is the moment where brotherhood meets business.

Where we find out what Squirrel's presidency is really worth.

"Let her go," Squirrel says quietly.

I release her arm.

She walks to Joaquin like she's gliding across water.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Just that same patient predator stride.

One of the sicarios —the younger one, baby-faced but trying to look hard—shifts as she passes.

Their shoulders brush.

Brief contact.

Nothing anyone would notice unless they were looking for it.

The kid mutters " Perdón " and steps back.

Joaquin circles her, inspecting.

"Strip," he orders.

"No." The word comes out before I can stop it.

Every gun in the room shifts toward me.

"No?" Joaquin's eyebrows rise. "You object to me examining my property?"

"She's already been inspected. By our ol’ ladies. She's clean."

"I didn't ask if she was clean. I asked her to strip."

Scarlett looks at me.

Not pleading.

Calculating.

Seeing how far I'll go.

"It's okay," she says softly. "I've survived worse."

She reaches for her shirt.

"Stop." I step forward. "You want to see merchandise? Fine. But she strips for no one but me."

"Possessive." Joaquin smiles. "I like that. Shows investment. But the cartel needs assurances."

"Then let me show you." I grab Scarlett, spin her to face the table. "You want to see what she's worth?"

My hands go to her throat.

Not squeezing.

Displaying.

The bruises from yesterday stand out purple against her golden skin.

"Already marked up." I trail my fingers down. "Already learning her place."

She plays along, letting her body go pliant.

Letting them think I've already started breaking her.

"Lift your shirt," I murmur in her ear. "Just enough."

She obeys, revealing the scars across her ribs.

"Los Zetas had her for three days," I announce. "She survived. Still has her mind. Still has information. That's not just luck."

Joaquin steps closer, interested in what I’m saying..

"The Delgado bloodline was always strong. Miguel was weak, but his daughter..." He reaches out to touch a scar.

I catch his wrist.

"Mine," I growl.

The sicarios tense.

"Careful, ese . That's a dangerous word to use with cartel property."

"She stops being valuable if she breaks. Too many hands, too much damage, and what good is she?" I release his wrist. "Give me time. Let me work. You'll get everything her father hid."

"And if she doesn't talk?"

"Then I'll gift wrap her corpse myself."

Scarlett flinches.

Perfect timing.

Perfect performance.

Joaquin considers, then nods.

"You have one week. We want routes, contacts, account numbers. Everything Miguel stole, everything he hid." He looks at Scarlett. "And if she doesn't provide, we'll see how much she's really worth at auction."

"She'll provide."

"She better." He snaps his fingers. "But first, a demonstration. We need to know she's properly motivated."

"What kind of demonstration?"

His smile makes my skin crawl.

"Fuck her. Here. Now. Show us how the Iron Veins MC motivates its prisoners."

The room goes silent.

Even Squirrel looks uncomfortable.

This isn't how we do business.

But with the cartel, you don't get to choose.

"That's not?—"

"Not what? Not civilized?" Joaquin laughs. "You think we're civilized men? You think what we do is clean?" He gestures to Scarlett. "She's a hole to extract information from. Nothing more. So use her, or we take her back."

I look at Scarlett.

She's already moving, already adapting.

Calculating angles and advantages.

Joaquin gestures toward the garage bay doors. "Outside. Where there's more... room to work."

The group moves like a pack, predators following the scent of violence.

The garage bay is full of bikes, tools, the smell of oil and chrome.

Scarlett backs against my bike, parked near the wall.

"If you're going to do it," she says, voice steady, "at least do it right."

Something in her eyes.

Not fear.

Not even anger.

Permission.

And underneath, a promise of revenge so sweet it might be worth it.

I cross to her, cage her against the bike.

"I'm sorry," I breathe against her ear.

"No, you're not." She grabs my cut, pulls me closer. "But you will be."

I kiss her to shut her up.

To stop the truths she keeps throwing like knives.

She kisses back with teeth and rage.

Drawing blood.

Making it real.

My hands go to her sweats, and I hate myself for how much I want this.

Hate that it's here, like this, with them watching.

Hate that she's already in my head, under my skin, burning through my veins like a fever.

"Make it believable," she whispers against my mouth. "Or they'll know."

So I do.

I spin her to face the bike, bend her over the seat.

Yank her sweats down just enough.

She braces herself, and I see her count breaths.

Preparing.

Calculating.

I free myself, spit in my hand.

It's not enough.

It's never enough.

But this isn't about pleasure.

It's about power.

About showing the cartel their property is being properly handled.

I push inside her, and she makes a sound that might be pain.

Might be victory.

Hard to tell with her.

"That's it," Joaquin approves. "Show her what she's worth."

I move, hating every second.

Hating the audience.

Hating that my body responds despite everything.

But mostly hating that she's already wet.

Already ready.

Like she expected this.

Planned for it.

She turns her head, catches my eye.

And smiles.

Not for them.

For me.

A smile that says I own you now .

A smile that says every thrust drives you deeper into my web .

A smile that promises I'll pay for this moment in ways I can't imagine.

I grab her hair, yank her head back.

Play the brute they expect.

But I see the calculation in her eyes.

The way she shifts to take control even from this position.

The way she performs for them while playing me.

"Harder," Joaquin orders. "Make her feel it."

I obey, and Scarlett laughs.

Actually fucking laughs.