The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 (3 page)

Jagger tilted his head to the side. “I didn't see a property patch on your cut. You got someone to keep you in line? You a mama or a sweet butt? Or did the Black Jacks change the rules and allow women to ride in their club?”

Arianne glared. Nothing rankled her more than the misogyny that permeated the biker world. Wives and girlfriends were supposed to feel honored to be deemed a biker's “property” or “old lady,” the equivalent of a civilian wife. “House mamas” and “sweet butts” who looked after the bikers' needs, both in and out of the bedroom, and took care of the clubhouse in return for housing and protection were considered communal property, but usually hooked up with one biker at a time. And the “hood rats,” “hang-arounds,” and “lays” who came for the parties and the thrill of a one-night stand with a badass biker were free for the taking.

“I'm nobody's property and I'm no sweet butt.” She straightened her posture and met his gaze full-on. “I was born into the Jacks. My dad is … a biker.” She caught herself just in time. What the hell was wrong with her? She wasn't a talkative person at the best of times, and now, when keeping her mouth shut mattered the most, she was about to tell him the one thing that could get her killed, no questions asked. And yet, perversely, there was something about Jagger that put her at ease. Maybe she'd hit her head harder than she thought.

“So, how is it you're patched?” He pointed to her cut, hanging off the footboard of her bed, the two-piece Black Jacks patch, missing the bottom rocker that only full patch members were permitted to wear, a reminder of her vulnerable position. She wore her cut only on club business, and she tried to do as little of that as possible.

She shrugged her answer, digging her nails into her palms. What was with all the questions? Either he was going to kill her or he wasn't, and odds favored the latter, since honor dictated that someone had to pay for the destruction of his clubhouse. So why didn't he just get on with it—or give her a chance to try to escape or die fighting instead of beguiling her with his winning personality, charm, and good looks?

“How about an easier question then.” His face grew pensive. “Did you burn down my clubhouse?”

Emotion welled up in her throat, fed by fear and tension and a disconcerting attraction to the ridiculously handsome man who held her life in his hands. “No, it wasn't me.”

“But it was the Black Jacks?”

Arianne fought to stay calm. Was there any point denying the Black Jacks were involved? No one else would have dared step foot on Sinners' property much less burn down the clubhouse. Or was this a test? Had a member of his club already identified the Jacks before they fled?

“Arianne?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his body tense.

She shook her head, wary of revealing too much. Although she hated the Jacks with a passion, she wasn't about to break the biker code of conduct that had been drilled into her since she could walk, especially when her brother's life was at risk. And the number-one rule was that club business stayed in the club. “You know I can't answer that question.”

“Justice won't be served if I take an innocent life.”

Her life.
His not-so-subtle threat shattered her fantasy that he was just a normal man, and not the president of a vicious one-percenter outlaw motorcycle club, who handed out death sentences the way she handed out drinks at Banks bar. He had just claimed he wouldn't hurt her, and now he was threatening to take her life. Was this some sort of a game to him?

“But honor will be,” she said. “Isn't that what you're getting at? Or are you saying I'm not innocent? Guilty by association?”

When his brows drew together, she tightened her grip on the sheet.
Bastard
. He was toying with her. Lulling her into a false sense of security before moving in for the kill. Well, he was about to discover she wasn't going down easy. Her father's cruelty seemed almost a kindness now: He'd made her strong. He'd forced her to learn how to survive.

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 fuck 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.

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 fucking 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.