Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(6)

Gritting her teeth against the dull ache in her head, she sat up again and shifted on the bed, swinging her legs over the side. Pain erupted in her ribs, so sharp and fierce, her hand flew to her side and she gasped.

Jagger hissed out a breath and his jaw tightened. “Axle kicked you when you were down. Doc said he bruised your ribs.” He leaned over and brushed his fingers lightly down her neck, sending a pulse of heat through her body. “She also said you’d been badly beaten. She wanted to take you to the hospital to check for internal injuries, but I could go only so far.” He trailed his fingers along her jaw and over the apple of her cheek, his touch so soothing that tears, unwanted and unexpected, welled in her eyes.

His voice dropped to a quiet murmur. “She said it wasn’t the first time.”

“Don’t.” She batted his hand away, confused by a kindness that belied the presidential patch on the front of his cut. And yet there was something different about Jagger. A calm confidence. A tempered edge.

His eyes glittered. “Did a Jack do this to you?”

She was saved from lying when the door opened, just a crack at first, and then wider. Deeply tanned fingers curled around the edge, pushing the door ajar.

But not wide enough for a clear run.

A tall, dark-haired man wearing a Sinner’s Tribe cut stepped into the room, his broad shoulders and lean muscled body completely filling the doorway. Darkly sensual, with chiseled features and penetrating brown eyes, he swept his gaze over the stark space, pausing briefly on her and then locking on Jagger. “Need to speak to you.”

With a sigh, Jagger stood. “Zane is VP of the Sinner’s Tribe and my oldest friend. He’s usually a little more polite with the ladies.” Jagger’s easy familiarity suggested he didn’t consider Arianne a threat, but his friend clearly did.

“The ladies I know don’t burn down buildings and kill our brothers.”

Arianne cringed at Zane’s venom-laced voice.

“Cole’s dead?” A muscle worked in Jagger’s jaw.

“We found him in the woods. Two bullets. One in the chest. The other went through his shoulder. Shooter used a .22. Woman’s gun.” Zane fixed Arianne with a frigid stare.

She gave a disdainful sniff. “Clearly, you don’t know many women who shoot. I use a .38 unless I can’t conceal the carry.”

“She’s telling the truth.” Jagger pointed to the dresser where her gun lay just out of reach. “Did you find anything else?”

Zane drew Jagger over to the window. Arianne’s gaze slid to the slightly open door and then over to the two men who appeared to be engrossed in their conversation.

Gun or exit? And did she even dare? Her body ached, her ribs burned, her head throbbed, and she was wearing only an oversized T-shirt and her underwear. No doubt she’d been undressed for the doctor’s examination, which is how they’d found her weapon.

Still, how could she not try? She knew better than anyone how their world worked: Club first. Club always. Regardless of Jagger’s personal views, if her death was in the best interests of the club, then he would kill her without hesitation. Better to die trying to live than to sit passively awaiting her fate because of a few injuries or a reluctance to let anyone see her pink polka-dot panties.

She steeled herself against the pain, and placed her feet firmly on the floor. The exit was her safest bet. Chances were they would shoot her before she could grab and unholster her gun.

One … two … three … go. Launching herself forward, Arianne shot off the bed and threw herself at the opening in the door. But even as she flew across the room, her feet barely touching the wooden floor, she knew Jagger would catch her.

“Christ.” He grabbed her before she reached the hallway, one hand clasping her shoulder, the other around her waist. With a sharp jerk, he pulled her into his body, imprisoning her in the warm circle of his arms.

Be careful what you wish for.

Seconds passed. Neither of them moved. Chests heaved together. Hearts pounded in unison. She drew in a ragged gasp and inhaled his intoxicating scent of leather and whiskey; a rush of longing, almost visceral in its intensity, caught her off guard.

Jagger leaned forward, brushing his lips over her ear, and they both shuddered. “Why the f*ck did you do that?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I didn’t try.” A wave of dizziness hit her hard, almost overshadowing the pain from her ribs. Damn betraying body. She tried to wiggle free and her knees buckled.

“I’ve got you.” His arms tightened around her, imprisonment becoming support, and she breathed out a small sigh.

“I’m okay.” She made another half-hearted attempt to escape, but he simply held her closer to his body.

“Let me go.” “I don’t need your help.”

With a snort of laughter, he lifted her easily in his arms. “Never met anyone who needed help as much as you.”

*

He should be angry.

Hell, Zane was spitting bullets in the corner. Instead, Jagger was amused, impressed, and no small bit aroused by his sexy prisoner’s attempt to escape. With her sweet warm body in his arms, her lush ass wiggling against his groin, he was reminded of just how long he had been without a woman—sweet butts and hood rats excluded, of course. Although the sweet butts were always happy to relieve the needs of his Sinner’s Tribe brethren, they were a quick fix that always left him feeling unsatisfied.