Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(14)
“Sparky, get the prospects to clean up the mess.” He nodded at Axel’s supporters on the floor. “Strip their colors, throw them into a van, and dump them at the side of the road. Their bikes stay with the club as compensation.”
The traitors sucked in a collective breath. Taking away a man’s bike was the ultimate humiliation, but under the bylaws of all outlaw clubs it was the appropriate penalty for members kicked out on bad terms.
“Out. Now.” Heart hammering in his chest, muscles still twitching, Jagger grabbed Arianne’s hand and dragged her from the room.
*
“Slow down.” Arianne wriggled her wrist, trying to get free.
Jagger stalked across the grass, pulling her behind him as they headed toward the shimmering glow of motorcycles, parked in neat rows along the vast gravel drive.
“I need a minute to catch my breath. It’s not every day someone yanks me out of bed, holds a knife to my throat, and then shoves me into the middle of a biker brawl.”
But Jagger didn’t stop, didn’t speak. Nor did he slow down. Instead, he increased his pace until she was almost running behind him.
“Why didn’t you just let me go last night? You must have known something like this would happen.”
Her outburst was purely rhetorical, a vent for her adrenaline-enhanced anger and fear. In her experience, men with Jagger’s power rarely explained their actions, and when they did, it wasn’t because they’d been asked. So when he slowed his pace and looked over his shoulder at her, she was unprepared for his concession.
“It had to go to a vote. Otherwise, I’d be dealing with accusations that I wasn’t prepared to take your life if the vote swung that way. I couldn’t risk dissension in the club, nor did I want an entire MC of outlaw vigilantes bent on revenge hunting you down.”
Arianne stopped in her tracks, forcing Jagger to slow and release her wrist. “So you were prepared to kill me for something I didn’t do? You took a gamble with my life? What if you didn’t have surveillance tapes? What if they’d agreed with Axle?”
A spasm of irritation crossed Jagger’s face and Arianne kicked herself for going too far. Why couldn’t she rein herself in around him? She would never even have contemplated speaking to Viper this way, and from what she’d seen in her brief time with the Sinner’s Tribe, Jagger was more than Viper’s equal.
“I know my men. You weren’t at risk. None of them would hurt a woman.”
Unlike the Black Jacks. By the time she’d turned sixteen, even her father realized it wasn’t safe for Arianne to be around the Jacks, despite the wall separating the clubhouse from their family home. But it had taken the biggest gamble of her life before he allowed her to move out, and even then he’d restricted her to Conundrum proper. She was a born a Black Jack, and he expected her to carry out her duties as a Black Jack whenever he called. But more than that, she belonged to him—his blood, his property—and there was no way Viper would ever let her go.
And yet she’d tried to run away—whether out of stubbornness, desperation, hope, or stupidity, she’d tried again and again. He’d caught her every time, and met her defiance with swift and brutal punishment.
“What about Axle?” She gestured toward the house. “What about the men who slapped me around and took me down to you at knifepoint? Weren’t they your men? Did they not share your beliefs? Did you not patch them in?” Her throat constricted, and for a second she lost control of the fear she had been holding at bay. A violent tremble shook her body and she folded her arms to hide her shaking hands.
Jagger firmly clasped her shoulders, drawing her forward, his eyes intent. She tensed, prepared for his anger. Viper would never have tolerated such an outburst.
“They will not harm you again, Arianne,” he said, his voice low and even. “You have my word.”
His word. A tremor went through her hands and her body slumped in relief. A biker’s word was his bond, not given lightly, upheld as a matter of pride and respect and for the honor of the club.
“Okay.” Her strangled whisper deepened his frown and he drew her closer, until she could feel the heat of his body, inhale the intoxicating scent of his cologne.
“They were patched in before my time,” he continued, although he owed her no explanation. “Most of the brothers who didn’t share my philosophy left the club when I became president. Axle and his supporters stayed, thinking my first term as president would be my last.”
“They obviously didn’t know you well.”
His face softened at last and his lips quirked at the corners. He liked the flattery, she realized, even if it was tongue-in-cheek, and she enjoyed making him smile. Maybe too much.
“And you do?”
“I know men like you.” And yet she’d never felt so at ease with a man as powerful and dominant as Jagger—not that many of those existed. She still couldn’t believe the way she was speaking to him—challenging, sarcastic, teasing—and she marveled at the words that were coming out of her mouth.
Jagger gave her a slow, appraising glance and then turned away. “There are no men like me.” He led her to a bike at the end of the row closest to the house, and pulled a small first aid kit from his saddlebag.
“Are you sure? You run this MC like every other outlaw club. There are only two penalties for breaking the rules: an ass-kicking or a kick-out with an ass-kicking on the side. You rule through violence and intimidation like any other MC president. The blood patches on your cut attest to that.”