Page 8 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

CHAPTER FOUR

Scarlett

Tucked away in the tank top's built-in bra, right where baby-face slipped it during our planned collision.

Jagger's breathing stays even across the room.

Still in his chair.

Still watching.

Still pretending he's not completely fucked.

I slide the phone free, careful not to rattle the chain.

The display shows a butterfly emoji.

Diego.

My first teacher, my first mistake, my first kill that actually meant something.

I answer in barely a whisper. "You're early."

" Princesa , your tíos grow impatient." His voice hasn't changed—honey over broken glass. "The old man wants updates."

"Tell Eduardo I'm exactly where I need to be."

"Are you? Because from what I hear, you're chained to some biker's bed playing house."

A pause.

"Is he at least pretty?"

I glance at Jagger's silhouette.

Pretty isn't the word.

Devastating, maybe.

Broken in ways that make my mouth water.

"Pretty enough."

"You always did like your toys damaged."

His laugh scrapes old wounds.

"Remember what I taught you about playing with your food?"

"Don't get attached."

"And are you? Attached?"

My silence speaks volumes.

" Ay, mija . You're supposed to kill him, not?—"

"I know what I'm supposed to do."

"Do you? Because the timeline was clear. Five days to infiltrate. Two days to execute. You're already behind schedule."

"Plans change."

"Plans don't change. You change. You get soft."

His voice drops, intimate and threatening. "Should I come collect you? Finish what you started?"

The thought of Diego anywhere near Jagger sends something feral through my veins.

Not protective.

Possessive.

There's a difference.

"Touch him and I'll mail your balls to your mother in Mazatlán."

"There she is. There's my little dragon."

He purrs like I've said something sweet. "But the clock is ticking. You have forty-eight hours to put a bullet in his head, or we come for you both."

"Diego—"

"Non-negotiable. The family invested five years in your training. Time to see returns."

"What if I have a better offer?"

Silence.

Eventually, he speaks. "I'm listening."

"Iron Veins MC just hit a Sinaloa stash house.

Los Lobos thinks Iron Veins did it, but what if I could prove it was actually the Three Devils MC?

What if I could deliver them to the family—every member, every connection, every route they run?

Let Iron Veins and the Three Devils destroy each other while we take everything? "

"In exchange for?"

"Time. Let me work. Let me turn them against each other until there's nothing left but ashes and opportunities."

"And the pendejo who killed your father?"

I look at Jagger again.

Still as stone but his breathing's changed.

He's awake.

Listening.

Good.

"He dies last. After he watches everything burn. After he begs."

Diego considers.

I can picture him—silk shirt, gold cross, knife always within reach.

Beautiful in that cruel way that makes smart girls stupid.

"One week," he finally says. "You have one week to show progress, or I come personally."

"Deal."

"And princesa ? Don't make me remind you what happens to girls who disappoint the family."

The line goes dead.

I slide the phone back into hiding, then stretch like I'm just waking.

"Nightmare?" Jagger asks from his chair.

"Reality." I sit up, letting the sheet fall. "You?"

"Thinking."

"Dangerous habit for a man in your position."

He stands, crosses to the bed.

Looms over me like judgment day.

"Who were you talking to?"

"Ghosts." I reach up, trace the St. Michael pendant through his shirt. "We all have them, don't we?"

His hand catches mine, squeezes until bones protest.

"Don't play games. Not now. Two of my brothers are dead because of you."

"Because of choices," I correct. "They chose to steal from my family. You chose to send them. I just... facilitated consequences."

"Is that what you call it?"

"What would you prefer? Divine justice? Karmic retribution?"

I use his grip to pull myself up, bringing us face to face.

"Or should I call it what it really is—the beginning of your penance?"

"My penance started five years ago."

"No. That was your guilt. Guilt is easy. Guilt is self-indulgent."

I lean closer, breathe against his mouth. "Penance requires suffering."

He shoves me back onto the bed, but I see the war in his eyes.

Want versus wisdom.

Need versus knowledge.

"You think you know me," he growls.

"I do know you. Every scar. Every sin. Every time you've woken in the morning with my father's name on your lips."

"Then you know what I'm capable of."

"I'm counting on it."

I spread my legs, inviting him and challenging him at the same time.

"Show me. Show me the monster who kills fathers. Show me the devil who pretends to be saved."

His control snaps just like I knew it would.

He's on me, in me, hands rough and desperate.

But I'm ready.

I've been ready for five years.

I flip us, pin his wrists above his head.

He could break free easily, but he doesn't.

He wants to see where this goes.

Wants to let me drive him to ruin.

"My turn," I whisper, moving slow enough to torture. "My rules."

"Scarlett—"

"Shut up."

I lean down, let my hair curtain us in darkness. "You don't get to speak. Killers don't get last words."

I ride him like I'm conducting an execution.

Slow.

Well thought out.

Making him feel every second of his surrender.

His hands flex against my hold, and I tighten my grip.

"No. You take what I give. How I give it. Like you took my father's life—without mercy."

He groans, hips bucking up.

I lift myself away, denying him.

"Beg."

"What?"

"You heard me. Beg like my father begged. Show me you're capable of humility."

His jaw clenches.

Pride wars with need across his face.

"Please."

The word comes out strangled.

"Please what?"

"Please... let me..."

"Let you what? Be specific. Details matter in confessions."

He breaks.

"Please let me inside you. Please move. Please?—"

I drop down hard, cutting off his words.

Set a punishing rhythm that makes us both see stars.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? From the first moment you saw me over my father's body. You wanted to own me. Break me. Make me yours."

"Yes."

"Too bad."

I lean down, whisper against his ear.

"I'm making you mine instead."

I reach between us, find that spot that makes him lose all control.

He comes with my name on his lips like a prayer.

Like a curse.

Like both.

I follow him over, vision white-hot and electric.

When I can breathe again, I release his wrists.

Red marks bracelet his skin.

Evidence of his willing captivity.

"Feel better?" I ask, climbing off him.

He doesn't answer.

Just stares at the ceiling like he's recalculating his entire existence.

"I need a shower," I announce. "You should probably check on your surviving brothers. Lots of decisions to make about retaliation and such."

"You're not going anywhere."

"Watch me."

I stand, grab his shirt from the floor.

The chain stops me three feet from the bathroom.

"Oops." I look back at him, all false innocence. "Guess you'll have to unlock me. Unless you want me to piss on your floor like the dog you've made me."

He finds the key, unlocks the shackle.

I rub my ankle, noting the raw skin.

"I'll need antiseptic. Infections are so inconvenient."

"Scarlett—"

"Shower first. Schemes later."

I close the bathroom door, lean against it.

My hands shake now that he can't see.

Not from fear.

From how much I want him.

From the realization that I almost forgot why I'm here.

Almost let the performance become real.

Diego's words echo: Don't get attached.

Too late for that warning.

Five years too late.

I turn on the water, hot as it goes.

Need to wash him off my skin before I do something stupid.

Like tell him the truth.

Like admit that I've been ruined since the moment he left me alive.

The door opens.

"Privacy is a social construct," I say without turning.

"So is mercy."

His hands slide around my waist, pull me back against him.

Still hard.

Still wanting me.

Still mine, even if he doesn't know it yet.

"Round two already? Impressive recovery for a man your age."

"I'm thirty-two, not dead."

"Debatable."

He spins me, presses me against the shower wall.

The water soaks through his clothes, streaming over my bare skin.

"You want to know what I thought about for five years?"

His mouth finds my throat, bites down.

"What I dreamed? What I planned?"

"Tell me."

"This. You under my hands. Responsive. Real. Not the ghost that haunts me but flesh and blood and fury."

"Careful," I gasp as his hands map my scars. "You're starting to sound attached."

"Maybe I am."

The admission hangs between us like a loaded gun.

I should use it.

Should twist this confession into a weapon.

Instead, I kiss him.

Soft.

Careful.

Like we're both something that might break.

"Don't," he whispers against my mouth.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be gentle. I can't take gentleness from you."

So I'm not.

I score my nails down his back, bite his lip until I taste copper.

Give him the violence he needs to accept the want.

We fuck against the shower wall like we're trying to crawl inside each other's skin.

Like we're trying to erase five years of accumulated hunger.

Like we both know this ends in blood but can't stop reaching for the knife.

Like we're trying to erase five years of accumulated hunger.

Like we both know this ends in blood but can't stop reaching for the knife.

He lifts me against the shower wall, and I wrap my legs around his waist.

No hesitation.

No preparation.

Just him pushing inside like he's coming home.

"Fuck," I gasp against his mouth.

"Is this what you wanted?" He drives deeper, fingers digging into my thighs. "To make me lose control?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because—" I lose my words as he shifts angles, hits that spot that makes me see God.

Or the devil.

Hard to tell the difference anymore.

He bites my neck, sucks hard enough to mark. "Because what?"

"Because controlled men make boring corpses."