The Sinner’s Tribe Motorcycle Club, Books 1-3 by Sarah Castille

sure as fuck don’t disrespect her.”
    The table stilled. If he had been any other man, she might have thanked him verbally, or she might have pointed out that his actions were dramatic and unnecessary, since she had the situation in hand. But he wasn’t just any man. He was an outlaw biker president, and his actions weren’t directed solely at saving her ass from a squeeze. In that brief exchange, he’d laid down the law for the bikers on both sides of the table. First, he was in charge. And second, Arianne belonged to him.
    So she gave him a simple nod of thanks. Her response seemed to please him. His face softened almost imperceptibly as he unclasped her hand from the Devil Dog’s wrist, then tugged until she released her captive. Her skin tingled at his touch, and when he rubbed this thumb lightly over her knuckles, she felt each stroke as a throb deep in her core.
    Still holding her hand, he retrieved his knife and then leaned back in his chair, his icy glare fixed on the now quivering Devil Dog who had no doubt pinched his very last ass.
    â€œSinners don’t disrespect women. You want to patch over, you adjust the attitude.”
    The Devil Dog, his face red, sweat beading on his brow at the possibility his behavior might have just lost his club the protection they clearly needed, apologized profusely to Arianne. Then he apologized to Jagger and each of the Sinners at the table. When he was done, he started again, but Arianne held up her free hand.
    â€œApology accepted. Now, let’s get some drinks on the table. Jagger, you want to start?”
    â€œYou already started something.” Jagger’s voice dropped to a low, husky rasp, and he squeezed her hand, sending all the wrong messages to all the right parts of her body.
    â€œQuestion is … do I want to finish it?”
    She couldn’t tell if he was flirting with her or threatening to beat on the Devil Dog, so she threw the question back at him. “Question is, what do you want to drink?”
    â€œPad.” He released his grip and held out his hand. Arianne gave him the pen and pad and he scrawled on the paper, then handed it back to her.
    Sexy. As. Fuck.
    Biting her lip to stifle a laugh, she tucked the notepad in her pocket. “So, our best whiskey and enough glasses to go round?”
    Satisfaction glittered in his eyes as he confirmed his assent with the briefest dip of his chin. For a heartbeat, she wondered if he’d been testing her. But did he really think she would give the game away?
    Relieved to have an excuse to get away from Jagger’s distracting charm and good looks, she headed back to the stockroom. What the hell was she thinking? Not only was she about to leave Conundrum, but he was exactly the kind of man she’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid: Too powerful. Too confident. Too violent. Too masculine. With the quiet kind of arrogance that came from being in command.
    And, of course, he had to be a biker.
    She searched the shelves for Banks’s twenty-one-year-old Redbreast. Although not a whiskey drinker—vodka was more her style—but she figured that at $180 a bottle, the selection would satisfy even the most discerning palate. Spotting the yellow label at the back of the shelf, she stretched up and reached for the green glass bottle.
    â€œHello, Vexy.” Low and rough with an unmistakable drawl, the voice in her ear sent a wave of cockroaches skittering beneath her skin, but not so much as the hand sliding over her hip.
    Danger. The warning spiked through her mind, bringing with it fleeting images from the nightmares that haunted her sleep. Dark room, torn clothing, fingers around her throat. Her body pinned to the bed. Helpless. Arianne drew in a ragged breath and tried to stem the flow, but the dam was broken. More images flashed. The thud of a door. Cool, sweet air in her lungs. A roar. The crack of bone. Jeff’s scream. And then Viper.
    Gritting her