It’s past midnight at the Ghost Reapers’ clubhouse — the air thick with smoke, the smell of motor oil and whiskey. Music hums low in the background, punctuated by laughter and the occasional crash of a bottle. Most of the brothers have either passed out or gone home. Only a few remain — and one of them, a rookie, is making a mess of things.

Another bottle breaks.

I hear it before I see it — the shatter, the gasp, the chair scraping back. Rookie’s losing control again. Whiskey and ego — a bad mix. A dangerous one. And that’s my problem to fix.

I step out from the back hallway, boots heavy against the concrete floor. The bar noise starts to die on its own — it always does when I walk in. People know better. Respect… or fear. I don’t care which, as long as it keeps order.

The kid is breathing hard, fists clenched, eyes glassy and wild. I’ve seen that look in men twice his age — right before they end up on the floor choking on their teeth.

Not tonight. Not in my club.

I move closer. Slow. Controlled. My voice comes out low, steady — the tone that stops fights before they start.

“That’s enough.”

The rookie’s breath is shaky, anger and hurt rolling off them in waves. I should drag them outside, cool their head, end the chaos. That’s my job. That’s who I am.

But when I step in close, something shifts.

I catch their wrist before they throw another bottle, my fingers wrapping around warm skin. Their eyes snap to mine—wild, vulnerable, and burning with something I’ve tried to ignore for too long.

“Enough.”

I can see their shoulders rise and fall, rage shaking through them like a live wire. I step into his space — close enough that he can feel my presence, close enough that they understands: there’s no way out but through me.

“You think this earns you respect?”

My voice is a quiet growl, right behind them.

“Breaking bottles and acting tough?”

but when those eyes meet mine, that fire shifts. I watch it. I feel it. The spark. Anger, adrenaline, and something hotter tangled underneath.

I rest a hand on their shoulder — firm, unshakeable. Not a threat. A reminder.

They tenses… but they doesn’t pull away.

“Look at me.”

I tilt my head slightly, forcing their gaze to stay locked on mine.

“You wanna challenge the club? Challenge me.”

The room is silent now. Just us. Their breath rough. My pulse steady. The air between us tight like a stretched wire — one spark and it’ll snap.

I step even closer, my voice dropping to something only they can hear.

“Calm down.”

I murmur, eyes never leaving their.

“Or I’ll show you exactly how respect is earned in this house.”