Rough Justice (Sinner's Tribe Motorcycle Club #1)(7)
She was tough—no doubt about that—but beneath her armor, he’d sensed fragility, and a quiet softness that did strange things to his stomach. Still, he couldn’t let her actions go unpunished. Between Arianne and Axle, his authority had been challenged more tonight than it had been in years. Maybe the full moon was to blame.
While Zane stood guard, Jagger fished around in his gym bag and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Last time he’d used them, he was trunking with Cade and Gunner.
He smiled inwardly at the memory as he crossed over to the bed. Cade had snatched a dumb-ass, top-level drug dealer off the street and Jagger had cuffed him and stuffed him in the trunk of his black Chrysler 300C. Then they’d spent the next hour shooting the breeze and driving around Conundrum while Gunner negotiated with the dealer’s family for his release. One hundred thousand dollars for two hours of work. And it all went into the club’s already-overflowing coffers.
“Didn’t want to do this, but I can’t have you trying to escape again.” He snapped one of the cuffs around her slender wrist. “Not only did the doctor say you have to stay in bed, but I wasn’t kidding when I said everyone outside this room wants you dead. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you’d made it past the door.”
Any other prisoner would’ve been shaking in the sheets, begging his forgiveness. Arianne glared. “Handcuffs? Seriously? Why don’t you be honest? This isn’t about me. It’s about your big-ass ego. I almost got away. Now you feel the need to put me in my place. Reassert your dominant alpha-male status.”
Stunned speechless, he just stared. Hell. Seriously injured, handcuffed to the bed, wolves at the door baying for her blood, and she was giving him attitude. Maybe she wasn’t as soft or fragile as he’d thought. Still, he shouldn’t be so surprised at her grit. She wore a Black Jack cut, and those colors weren’t earned without blood or a piece of one’s soul.
Zane smiled wickedly. “Careful, sweetheart, or Jagger’ll be adding another blood patch to his cut sooner rather than later. I’m pretty sure a couple of the ones he’s got on there are from killing Jacks who gave him lip.”
Jagger bristled, curiously annoyed by Zane’s reference to his blood patches, one for every life he’d taken. He wasn’t proud of those patches, but death was inevitable in their kill-or-be-killed world, and when his club or his men were under threat, he had no hesitation pulling the trigger.
He caught the flash of disapproval in her eyes before she sighed. “If you think that scares me, you’re dead wrong. Except for the prospects, I don’t think there are any Jacks without blood patches.”
“What about you?”
Her eyes flashed, amused. “If I were the kind of woman who spent her time earning blood patches, you’d be the one in handcuffs, and your friend over there would be dead on the floor.”
Laughter welled up in his chest, and he fought like hell to keep it back. Damn. This was the kind of woman who should be in his bed. Sassy, sensual, and full of fire. And with her wrist handcuffed above her head, her sweet body stretched out on the sheets and affording him a glimpse of her creamy thighs, his mouth watered at the thought of taming her.
Zane snorted in disbelief. “Given you were wearing riding leathers, drove a high-end Kawasaki into our yard, made a suicidal escape attempt, and then proceeded to give us lip, I’d say there is a strong possibility you might have earned a blood patch or two.”
“Well, I haven’t, but I’m happy to start with you.” Her chin lifted. “Just toss over the key … unless, of course, you’re afraid of me.”
Of all the f*cking cheek. Jagger couldn’t help but admire her moxie, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. “The cuff stays on. I don’t want to worry you’ll try to earn your patch at my expense while I’m asleep.”
“I must have ‘killer’ written all over me,” Arianne huffed.
This time he couldn’t hold back the laughter. She was many things—sexy, beautiful, and brave—but “killer” didn’t fit. “Not anywhere I can see.”
Color rose in her cheeks and she shifted on the bed, her shirt riding up almost to the juncture of her thighs. Jagger’s groin tightened and he forced himself to look away. He should have given the doctor one of Gunner’s oversize shirts, or sent Sherry, the house mama, to buy their captive something decent to wear. He couldn’t afford to think of her as anything but a prisoner, an enemy. With a glare at Zane, who had also been studying her with interest, Jagger grabbed a blanket from the foot of the bed and covered her up.
“So … how did you get so many blood patches?” Her lips curled in disdain even as she tucked the blanket around her sides with her free hand. “Women? Families? Civilians?”
“You know better than to ask.” Club business was never shared with outsiders, and yet her derision sliced through him, a knife in his gut.
What the hell? He barely knew her, and he was acting like her opinion mattered. Better she knew he was a happily blooded member of the MC than a man who regretted every life he’d had to take. Scowling, he spun away and stalked toward the door without a second glance at the woman on the bed. Regret was a weakness. As was compassion. And he’d extended too much of that already.
THREE