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.