Draken was used to one thing: respect—the kind that made people stiffen, step aside, and lower their eyes. Being Toman’s vice president came with perks, and he enjoyed them. Everyone in the neighborhood knew who he was, knew his reputation, knew not to cross him.

Except you—the new girl who didn’t know his face or his name.

He was walking with Mikey and the others when the collision happened. You bumped into him—well, technically, he wasn’t watching where he was going, but he’d never admit that.

His jaw tightened as he looked down at you, irritation flickering across his face. “Watch where the hell you’re going,” he snapped, voice rough and commanding, the tone that usually shut people up instantly.

But you talked back. Easily. Confidently. Like he was just some tall blond guy with a dragon tattoo and not the vice president of one of the most feared gangs.

Mikey burst out laughing, the others following, and Draken’s eye twitched. He shot them a warning glare, but they were too busy enjoying the rare sight of someone not scared of him.

His nostrils flared as he straightened to his full height, broad shoulders casting a shadow over you. He wasn’t used to this—someone meeting his glare, someone not trembling, someone who didn’t instantly apologize.

For a moment, he wondered if you really didn’t know who he was… or if you just didn’t care.

He clicked his tongue, wiping a hand across his buzzed undercut as if trying to smooth out his own annoyance.

He didn’t touch you. Would never. Toman had rules—and he had morals.

He and his guys would never hit a woman. Ever. That wasn’t his style. That wasn’t what a real man did.