Page 9 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

He laughs, dark and broken against my throat. "I'm going to miss you when you kill me."

"Bold of you to assume I'll let you."

I clench around him, watch his eyes roll back.

Use every internal muscle Diego trained me to weaponize.

"Jesus, Scarlett?—"

"Wrong name." I bite his earlobe. "Try again."

He chuckles, deep and low in his chest. "You want me to call you princess? Baby? My little dragon?"

"I want you to tell me the truth."

He stills. "What truth?"

"That you've thought about this every time you showered for five years. That you've fucked your fist in here imagining it was me."

His next thrust drives all the air from my lungs. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I've fucked myself thinking about you. Hated myself for it. Came anyway." His hand wraps around my throat. "That what you want to hear? That you've been making me hard since you were nineteen and covered in your father's blood?"

I urge him. "Keep going."

"You ruined me that night. The way you looked at me. Like you could see through all my bullshit to the corrupt core." He pounds into me harder. "Like you knew I'd end up right here, fucking you against this wall, unable to stop even though I know you're planning my death."

"And you love it."

"God help me, I do."

"Say my name."

"Scarlett—"

"No. What you call me in your head when you're alone."

His rhythm falters. "Little dragon," he growls against my neck. "My little dragon."

"Yours?"

"Mine. Even if it kills us both."

The words break something in both of us.

I come with his name on my lips, nails raking down his back hard enough to scar.

He follows me over, driving deep one last time.

Holds me there against the wall like he's trying to fuse us into one person.

Like if he goes deep enough, stays long enough, maybe we won't have to be enemies.

But we are.

We always will be.

Even as our bodies shake with aftershocks.

Even as he presses his forehead to mine and breathes like he's drowning.

Even as I card my fingers through his wet hair and pretend this is tenderness instead of war.

"I'm going to destroy you," I whisper against his mouth.

"I know," he whispers back.

"Then why?—"

He pulls out slowly, sets me down like I'm something precious. "Because maybe destruction is all I have left to give you."

The loss of him makes me want to scream.

Instead, I turn into the spray and start counting.

Counting days until Diego comes.

Counting ways this ends badly.

Counting the number of times I've come on his cock and wondered if this is what Stockholm syndrome feels like from the inside.

After, we stand under the spray in silence.

I wash his hair because it seems like something that would disturb him.

It does.

He goes rigid, then slowly relaxes.

Like a wild animal learning to accept touch.

"My mother used to do this," he says quietly. "When I was young. Before I became..."

"A killer?"

"A disappointment."

I work shampoo through his hair, gentle despite myself. "She loved you. Even at the end. Especially at the end."

He turns, stares at me with those dark eyes. "How do you?—"

"I told you. I was there. Volunteer program."

"You were really spying on my dying mother?"

I roll my eyes. "I was reading to terminal patients. Your mother happened to be one of them."

He doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. " Happened to be."

"Fine. I specifically requested the cancer ward after learning she was there. Happy?"

Jagger’s eyes grow darker. "Why?"

"Know thy enemy. Basic warfare tactics."

He cocks a single brow, staring into my eyes. "Is that what we are? Enemies?"

I trace the scar through his eyebrow. "What else could we be? You killed my father. I'm going to kill you. Everything else is just... foreplay."

He’s quiet for a moment, then ultimately laughs. "You're not going to kill me."

"No?"

He licks his lips, looking me up and down. "No. You had chances. That first night, when I was watching you sleep. This morning when I was inside you. Just now in the shower. You could have ended this anytime."

"Maybe I'm not done playing."

"Maybe." He catches my hand. "Or maybe you need me alive for the same reason I needed you alive. Because the alternative is admitting we're both already dead."

The water runs cold.

We don't move.

"We’re running out of time," I whisper.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just... time limits and other illusions."

We dry off in silence, dress in separate corners like strangers.

Which we are.

Strangers who've studied each other for five years.

Strangers who've fucked like enemies, and enemies who've touched like lovers.

"What happens now?" he asks.

"Now? Now you deal with the mess I've made. Two dead brothers. Los Lobos thinking you stole from them. Sinaloa thinking Los Lobos is moving on their territory."

I smile, sharp as winter.

"Oh, and your president probably wants answers about why his VP's pet just started a war."

Recognition flashes in his eyes. "You planned this."

Bingo. "Every move. Every angle. Every consequence."

He shakes his head, obviously frustrated. "Why warn me?"

"Because chaos without witnesses is just noise. I want you to see it coming. Want you to know exactly how thoroughly you're fucked."

I move to his bed, curl up like I own it. "Plus, watching you try to juggle all these flaming chainsaws? Better than cable."

His phone explodes with notifications.

Texts.

Calls.

The future arriving all at once.

"Answer them," I suggest. "Squirrel sounds impatient."

He stares at me for a long moment. "This isn't over."

"Of course not. We've got six more days of foreplay before the real fucking begins."

He leaves, slamming the door behind him.

I wait until his footsteps fade, then pull out the burner again.

Send a single photo to Diego.

Me in Jagger's bed, wearing his shirt, his marks visible on my throat.

The caption: Working as intended.

Three dots appear immediately.

Careful, princesa. You look a little too comfortable.

I'm about to respond when another text arrives.

This time with a photo attachment.

My blood freezes.

It's a picture of Mel—the sweet old lady who showed me kindness.

Bound.

Gagged.

Diego's knife at her throat.

The message: Insurance. In case you forget who you belong to.

I stare at the photo, rage building like a tidal wave.

This wasn't the plan.

Mel's innocent.

She's not part of this.

But that's Diego's specialty—finding pressure points and squeezing until you break or comply.

Another text:

Tick tock, little dragon.

I delete everything and hide the phone.

As I sit in Jagger's bed I plan Diego's death.

Right after Jagger's.

Or maybe during.

Details to be determined.

But one thing's certain—my dance card just got more complicated.

And the music's about to change.

***

Twenty minutes later, the door slams open.

Jagger looks like he's been through a war.

Blood on his knuckles.

Murder in his eyes.

"Ripper and Chord are dead. Poncho's missing half his face. Hammer took two bullets. And now one of our old ladies is missing." He stalks toward me. "Squirrel wants your head on a pike."

"But not you?"

"I want answers first."

"Ask nicely."

He grabs my throat, hauls me up.

Not enough pressure to cut off air.

Just enough to make a point. "How many more surprises have you planted?"

"Wouldn't be surprises if I told you."

His grip tightens.

I moan.

Actually fucking moan.

His eyes darken. "You're sick."

"Trained," I correct. "There's a difference."

"By who?"

"You really want to know?"

He releases me.

I rub my throat, knowing it'll bruise again.

Start collecting them like merit badges. "His name was Diego. Still is, technically. Though he goes by El Cuervo now."

"The crow."

I move to the window, stare out at the compound. "Mm. Funny how you both chose bird names. Must be a killer thing."

I watch his brothers scurry like ants before a storm. "I was twenty when Tío Eduardo sent me to him. Fresh from Berkeley, still soft with grief and good intentions."

"What happened?"

"He unmade me. Then rebuilt me into something useful."

The memory tastes like copper and mezcal.

Like the first time Diego made me kill.

Not quick and clean like Jagger did.

Slow.

Personal.

"Feel his pulse stop, princesa. Feel the exact moment God abandons him."

A shiver runs through me."He taught me that bodies are just tools. Pain is just information. Death is just punctuation at the end of a sentence."

There's something raw in his voice. "And fucking? Did he teach you that too?"

Is it jealousy?

"He taught me everything." I turn, meet his gaze straight on. "How to make men beg. How to make them betray their brothers. How to make them believe they're in control while I rob them blind."

He’s silent for a few moments. "Is that what you're doing to me?"

"You tell me."

I pull the burner from its hiding spot and toss it to him. "Password's your mother's birthday."

He catches it, stares. "How do you?—"

"June fifteenth. You visit her grave every year. Leave vanilla flowers because she loved the smell."

His jaw clenches as he unlocks the phone.

I watch his face change as he scrolls through photos.

Years of surveillance.

Him at crime scenes.

At church.

At his mother's grave.

With other women.

Always looking empty.

Always looking lost.

"Jesus Christ."

"Wrong deity, remember?"

He finds the folder labeled insurance and opens it, going very still. "These are..."

"Videos. Photos. Audio recordings. Every crime you've committed in five years. Every body. Every broken law."

I smile pleasant as poison. "HD quality. Admissible in court."

"You're building a case?" he asks, voice tight.

"Built. Past tense. The FBI would cream themselves over this file."

"But you haven't sent it." It's not a question.

I confirm. "Not yet."

"Why?"

"Because federal prison is too easy. Three meals, protected custody, maybe even a book deal." I take the phone back. "You deserve worse."

"What do you want?"

"Justice."

"You keep saying that word."