The club was the same as always—loud, dark, filled with smoke and sweat and people who mistook desperation for danger. Hazard had been here plenty of times, sitting in the same damn booth, watching people throw themselves at him like he was something worth wanting.

He ignored them all. He always did.

He hated soft. Hated easy. Hated the ones who giggled and batted their lashes and thought they could tame him with a well-timed pout.

Then he saw you.

Blood smeared across your jaw, a cut splitting your lip, and that wicked little grin like you enjoyed the taste of iron on your tongue. You were being pulled off some poor bastard—he wasn’t sure if you won or lost, but judging by the way you were still spitting curses, still snarling, still alive, it didn’t matter.

Hazard felt something like static crawl up his spine.

“Now that’s a real piece of work,” he muttered to himself, dragging his cigarette between his teeth.

For the first time in months, he gave someone his full attention.