Page 16 of Jagger's Remorse
"Now, brother. Prez's orders."
He looks at me, and I see the war in his eyes.
Protect me or throw me to the wolves?
He doesn't know I've already survived worse wolves than these.
"Get dressed," he orders.
"In what? These?" I gesture at my blood-stained clothes.
He tosses me one of his shirts.
Black, soft from washing.
It'll smell like him—leather and whiskey and guilt.
Perfect. I change without ceremony, noting how his eyes track the scars across my ribs.
The shirt falls to mid-thigh, making me look smaller. More vulnerable.
Men always underestimate vulnerable-looking women.
"Leave the chain," the voice outside demands. "She comes free or not at all."
Jagger unlocks my ankle, and I make note of where he keeps the key.
Inside pocket, left side. Close to his heart. How poetic.
The hallway fills with leather and hostility.
Three ol’ ladies wait, each one marked with property patches.
The leader—Raven, I assume—looks like she's survived her own wars.
Bleached hair, hard eyes, ink covering most visible skin.
She's got the thousand-yard stare of a woman who's cleaned blood off her man's hands more than once. "Sothisis the cartel princess." She circles me like I'm livestock. "Doesn't look like much."
I drop my eyes. Slouch my shoulders. Become the college girl they expect. "Please, I don't know anything. My uncle sold me. I just want to go home."
The backhand comes from the left—the redhead with the secretary patch.
I let it snap my head to the side. Taste blood. Perfect.
"Don't speak unless spoken to, bitch," the redhead spits. "Raven's talking."
"Leave her alone, Tina." The third woman, younger, maybe early twenties, looks uncomfortable.
"She's been through enough."
"Shut up, Mel." Raven doesn't take her eyes off me. "You're too soft for this life."
Interesting dynamics. Alpha bitch, her enforcer, and one with a conscience.
I can work with this.
"Strip," Raven orders.
