Page 7 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

"Is that all you've got, killer?" She gasps loud enough for everyone to hear. "My father put up more fight than this."

Red floods my vision.

I slam into her, furious and wild.

She takes it, encourages it.

Goads me into violence while her body pulls me deeper.

And then she does something unforgivable.

She comes.

Not quietly.

Not discreetly.

She comes like a scream, like a victory cry, like a woman claiming her throne.

She comes while staring directly at Joaquin.

Then at Squirrel.

Then at every single man in the room.

Making sure they see.

Making sure they know.

She's not broken.

She's not beaten.

She's winning.

I follow her over, unable to stop.

Unable to do anything but empty myself into her while she smiles that terrible smile.

"Interesting." Joaquin's voice cuts through the haze. "She enjoys it."

"She's twisted," I manage, tucking myself away. "Survived Los Zetas by learning to like pain."

"Useful." He nods to his men. "We'll be back in three days for a progress report. Have something concrete, or we take her to auction."

They file out, leaving us in ruins.

Scarlett straightens her clothes, casual as Sunday morning.

"Well," she says to the room at large, "that was fun."

Digger laughs, nervous and high. "Fuck me, VP. Your bitch is crazier than you are."

"Get out," I growl.

"But—"

"All of you. Get. Out."

They scramble to obey.

Even Squirrel knows when to give space.

Soon, it's just us and the echo of what happened.

"You okay?" I ask.

She laughs, that broken glass sound.

"Am I okay? You just rage-fucked me in front of a room full of your brothers and cartel members to prove you own me, and you're asking if I'm okay?"

"I didn't want?—"

"Yes, you did." She faces me, still glowing with the aftermath. "You wanted it the second Joaquin suggested it. Maybe before. You've wanted to fuck me over your bike for years, Jagger, since Berkeley. Don’t fucking lie to me."

"How do you know that shit. I?—"

"January sixteenth. Three years ago. You were watching me at Berkeley. I was dating that pre-med student—Will? You remember him."

My jaw clenches.

Yeah, I remember that prick.

"You followed us to a biker bar in Oakland. Watched him try to impress me with his Ducati. Saw the way I looked at the real bikes. The Harleys." She steps closer. "You went home and jerked off thinking about me on yours, didn't you?"

"You don't know?—"

"You came so hard you blacked out. Woke up still holding your cock, my name on your lips.

" Closer still. "How do I know? Because you weren't the only one watching that night.

I was in the parking lot. Saw you follow us.

Followed you home. Watched through your window while you defiled yourself thinking about Miguel Delgado's little girl. "

"You're lying."

"Am I?" She pulls out a phone—where the fuck was she hiding that? "Want to see the video?"

She dances away, laughing.

My mind races back—when did she— The sicario .

Baby face.

The one who bumped her.

Son of a bitch.

"Friend of yours?" I ask.

"Family takes care of family." She shrugs. "Tío Eduardo has eyes everywhere. Even in Los Lobos."

I snatch for it.

"That's the thing about obsession, Jagger. It makes you sloppy. Makes you vulnerable." She pockets the phone. "I have hours of footage. Years of you losing control. Insurance, my father would call it."

"What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted. Justice." She heads for the door. "But first, I want a shower. I smell like shame and bad decisions."

"Scarlett—"

"Oh, and Jagger?" She pauses at the threshold. "Next time you fuck me in public? Make sure you ask nicely first. I might surprise you and say yes without the audience."

She's gone before I can respond.

I stand there, processing.

She played me.

Played the cartel.

Played the club.

And everyone thinks they won while she's collecting victories like scalps.

My phone buzzes.

Chord:

Heading to Modesto. That stash house better be real.

I stare at the text, unease crawling up my spine.

She gave up that location too easily.

Too readily.

A trap?

Or another move in her game?

I start to text back a warning, then stop.

What would I say?

The cartel princess might be playing us?

The woman I just publicly fucked has an agenda?

They already know that.

They just don't know how deep it goes.

Neither do I.

But I'm starting to suspect I'm about to find out.

I head to my room, find the door locked.

From the inside.

"Scarlett?"

"Washing off your sins," she calls. "Give me twenty minutes."

"How did you lock?—"

"Same way I'll unlock it later. When I'm ready."

The water runs, and I hear her humming.

Something familiar.

Something that makes my blood freeze.

Mom's favorite hymn.

The one she hummed while making breakfast.

While folding laundry.

While dying of cancer, I couldn't fix.

How does she know that song?

"Where did you hear that?" My voice comes out rough.

The humming stops.

"Your mother had a beautiful voice. Even at the end. Even when the morphine made everything else fuzzy, she could carry a tune."

"You weren't—that's not?—"

"Room 314. Mercy General. The cancer ward smells like disinfectant and death." Her voice carries through the door. "You sat by her bed reading Psalms because she couldn't see the pages anymore. Your voice broke on chapter twenty-three."

I slam my fist against the door.

"How?"

"I was there. Volunteer program, reading to terminal patients. Small world, right?" The water shuts off. "Your mother talked about you constantly. Her Marine son. Her guilt over praying for the wrong things. She asked me to pray for you once."

"Stop."

"I did. Prayed you'd suffer like she was suffering. Prayed you'd know what it felt like to lose everything." The lock clicks. "Guess God was listening after all."

The door opens.

She stands there in a towel, water still beading on her skin.

"Your mother died in the early morning hours. You were holding her hand. She tried to say your name but couldn't manage it." She steps past me. "I know because I was in the hallway. Watching. Learning. Understanding the man who killed my father."

"You're sick."

"Maybe I am." She drops the towel, stands naked in my room like she owns it. "Did you know she kept a picture of me? Not of me specifically, but the volunteer group. We're all in it, smiling like idiots who think reading to dying people matters."

I can't speak.

Can't process this violation.

"She said I reminded her of someone. 'Such a nice girl,' she said. 'My Jackson would like you.'" She pulls on fresh clothes—mine again. "Funny how right she was."

"Get out."

"No." She sits on my bed. "We need to discuss what happens when your boys hit that stash house."

"What did you do?"

"Me? Nothing. But Pablo might have mentioned to certain people that Los Lobos was planning to move on Sinaloa territory. Might have suggested they keep an eye on their properties." She examines her nails. "Might have failed to mention it would be Iron Veins MC pulling the trigger."

"You set us up."

"I set the board. How you play is up to you." She lies back, casual. "Call them off, and the cartel wonders why. Let them go, and deal with whatever comes. Your choice."

"People could die."

"People do die. Fathers die. Mothers die." She looks at me. "Everyone dies, Jagger. The question is whether it means something."

My phone rings.

Chord.

I answer, decision made. "Yeah?"

"We're five minutes out. You sure about this?"

I look at Scarlett.

She smiles, waiting.

Testing.

"I'm sure," I say. "But Chord? Go in careful. Something feels off."

"Always do, brother."

He hangs up.

"Interesting choice," Scarlett observes. "Warning him, but not calling it off. Playing both sides."

"Keeping my options open."

"Just like your mother taught you." She rolls onto her stomach. "Tell me, do you think she'd be proud? Her son, the killer? Or do you think she dies again every time you pull that trigger?"

I'm across the room before I realize I've moved.

Hand around her throat.

Pressing her into the mattress.

"Don't talk about her."

"Why not? We bonded over you. Those last weeks, all she wanted was to talk about her baby boy. How proud she was. How guilty she felt." Her pulse flutters under my palm. "Did you know she blamed herself for what you became? Thought if she'd been a better mother, prayed harder, loved more?—"

"Shut up."

"Make me."

The challenge hangs between us.

She's goading me.

Pushing buttons I didn't know I had.

And I'm letting her.

"That's what I thought," she whispers when I don't move. "All that rage, all that guilt, and you can't even properly punish the woman mocking your dead mother. She'd be so disappointed."

I squeeze tighter.

She arches into it.

"Harder," she gasps. "Or are you only rough when there's an audience?"

I release her, step back.

She's won this round.

We both know it.

"Three days," I say. "You have three days to give me something real for the cartel, or?—"

"Or what? You'll kill me? Torture me? Fuck me over your bike again?" She laughs. "You're out of threats, Jagger. Because we both know the truth—you need me breathing more than I need you at all."

My phone buzzes.

Text from Chord:

We're in. Holy shit, it's all here. But boss... something's wrong. Too easy. Too ? —

The text cuts off.

I try calling back.

Nothing.

"Problem?" Scarlett asks innocently.

"What did you do?"

"Gave you exactly what I promised. A stash house full of drugs and money." She stretches. "What happens after is really more about karma than planning."

Another phone rings.

Not mine.

She pulls that hidden phone out again, answers in Spanish.

" Sí, Tío ... Yes, they just arrived... No, Iron Veins MC... That's right, the same ones who... Of course... I understand... Yes, I'll be careful... Te amo también ."

She hangs up, looks at me.

"Eduardo sends his regards. Also, his condolences for the men you just lost." She checks the time. "Well, will lose in about two minutes. Unless they're very fast runners."

"You called the plaza boss?"

"He called me. Family likes to check in." She stands, straightens my shirt. "Don't worry, I didn't mention you specifically. Yet. That reunion I'm saving for something special."

My phone explodes with calls.

Squirrel.

Digger.

Hammer.

News travels fast when brothers die.

"You should probably answer that," she suggests. "Presidents don't like it when VPs go dark during a crisis."

I stare at her, this woman who walked into hell willingly.

Who set up my brothers to die.

Who knows about my mother, my guilt, my shame.

Who came on my cock an hour ago, knowing she would be responsible for my brother’s deaths.

"What are you?"

"I'm exactly what you made me," she says simply. "That night in my father's office. You looked at a nineteen-year-old girl and decided she was worth more alive than dead. Did you think I'd stay that girl? Did you think mercy came without consequences?"

The phone keeps ringing.

"Answer it," she orders. "Play your part. Mourn your dead. And remember—this is just day one."

I answer, Squirrel's voice exploding through the speaker.

But I keep my eyes on her.

On this creature, I created with mercy.

With a single moment of humanity I can't take back.

She mouths something while Squirrel rages about ambushes and blood.

Three words that chill me more than any threat:

Stations of the Cross.

The Catholic in me recognizes the reference.

Christ's path to crucifixion.

Fourteen stops on the way to death.

And I realize with cold certainty—she's not just here for revenge.

She's here for my complete destruction.

One station at a time.

The first station: Jesus is condemned to death.

And I've just been judged guilty.