She swallowed dryly as she remembered racing through Conundrum on her Ninja, desperate to stop Jeff from making a mistake that could cost him his life. Hope and desolation. Flames flickering. The crack of a gun. And then darkness.
Jagger leaned forward, his hand outstretched as if to steady her. “You’re lookin’ very white. You gonna pass out?”
“No. I’m fine.”
Fighting back an almost overwhelming urge to run, she made a quick assessment of the room: king-size bed, night table, and wooden chair. Bare and functional. Her .38, still in its leather calf holster, sat beside a black gym bag on a low, wide dresser. A window with no curtains. Moonlight casting shadows on the floor. Handsome-as-fuck executioner. No Jeff. Small mercy. Maybe he’d escaped.
Maybe she could escape, too. She had to escape. If Jagger found out her father was his mortal enemy, he would shoot her on the spot.
“Where are we?” Her voice was thin, almost unrecognizable, and raw in her throat.
Jagger tilted his head and gave her an amused smile. “Too far to run, if that’s what you’re thinking. We acquired this old house from a double-crossing dealer who thought he could play us. Nothing around for miles except mountains, trees, and the odd wolf. And if you did get it into your head to go for a hike, there are one hundred angry Sinners and support club members outside who think you burned down our clubhouse. They want blood. Right now, this is the safest place for you to be.”
Okay. Not good odds. But staying here was certain death. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed herself to sitting, grimacing as pain sliced through her head.
With a soft, admonishing grumble, Jagger clasped her arm and helped her back down onto the pillow. “Doc said you had a concussion and shouldn’t get out of bed for a coupla days.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Why didn’t you just kill me? Why bother with a doctor? Or do you like your prisoners healthy before you torture them?”
He shifted in his chair, and a shadow crossed his disturbingly attractive face. “Innocent until proven guilty. I added it to our bylaws. Keeps the boys from becoming vigilantes and delivering instant retribution for imagined slights.”
“Maybe in your club. Not in mine.”
She clamped her mouth shut. Damn. Even the smallest bit of information could reveal the identity of her father, although save for the dark hair, she and her father didn’t look much alike. And despite the fact that she’d been wearing her Black Jacks cut, she wasn’t a Jack. Not by a long shot.
Jagger studied her in silence, unnerving her with his steady stare. But damned if she would … could look away from those warm brown eyes. Deep. Fathomless. For a second her mind unmoored and she was floating in a chocolate sea.
Safe.
Protected.
What the hell was she doing? When had anyone ever protected her? And he was the enemy. Their clubs had been fighting over territory for years, trading brutalities the way young boys traded insults. Even the old ladies weren’t safe.
Or their daughters …
She pushed the memory away. Her mother hadn’t died because of the feud but because of the biker culture at the heart of it. A culture that considered women to be property and nothing more.
“You got a name?” He leaned back and spread his legs in the irritating way men often did, taking up the space of three people in an effort to exert dominance.
Except Jagger didn’t really have to try. From the authority in his voice to the power oozing from his pores, he was every inch the dominant alpha male. A natural leader. She doubted anyone ever challenged him. And that traitorous lick of heat deep in her core? Simply an instinctive primal response. Easily rationalized away.
“Arianne.” The name dropped from her lips before she could catch it. Almost immediately, she realized her mistake. She’d given him her real name. Her birth name. The name she hadn’t used in the biker world since her mother died. What the hell was she thinking? “I mean, Vexy.” She firmed her voice. “Vexy is my road name.”
His rugged face softened. “Arianne is a pretty name. Soft. Suits you. Vexy, not so much. Makes me think of a sexy woman who’s got a temper.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. As if she didn’t know what the word “vex” meant. But bikers didn’t get to choose their road names; those names were bestowed by the club. And although women weren’t allowed to be an official part of the Black Jacks, she had status, a road name, and a cut simply because of who she was.
Jagger lifted an eyebrow. “That you, Arianne? You got a temper?”
Her cheeks heated. Was he teasing her? With his face an impassive mask, and his tone cool and even, she couldn’t tell. But she liked the sound of her name on his lips—his soft rumble over the second syllable—so much that she didn’t correct him. The temper part, however … Folding her arms across her chest, she narrowed her eyes. “Try me.”