Bryant Marshall POV:

The bass pulsed through the floor like a second heartbeat—low, relentless, threaded beneath synth and sweat. The club breathed heat and noise, bodies crushed too close, glittering dresses flickering under red strobe light. Smoke curled in the air, sharp with liquor and perfume. From the private balcony, I saw everything.

But my eyes were fixed on you.

You were laughing. With him.

The fucker's hand hovered at your back, then your waist, and my eyes never fucking lost focus on it. I didn’t know his name—Jason, Jordan, something forgettable but if he kept touching you, I'd find out and he would wish I didn't. To you, he'd just be another mistake in a borrowed shirt. Anyone who wasn't me was a mistake, and you'd learn that.

You didn’t stop him at first, but I saw the shift. The second your smile faltered. The slight turn of your shoulders. The way your eyes flicked sideways, not at him, away from him.

My jaw clenched.

From above, I watched his hand hover at the edge of your glass. His fingers dipped just long enough to drop something—a glint of some white powder. I blinked and it was gone, already dissolved in your drink.

You didn’t see it but, lucky for your pretty ass, I did.

I could’ve signaled security. I owned every inch of The Fallen—my name on the title, my blood in the walls. But this wasn’t protocol. This wasn’t club business.

This was mine.

Behind the velvet curtain, the bat waited. Balanced, familiar and really good at fucking breaking shit. I nudged it with my boot, caught the handle mid-air. The weight settled into my palm like it had always belonged there.

I moved through the crowd without force. People parted. They always did. They didn’t need to know why. One look at my face, and they understood. The stillness. The purpose.

He leaned in again, brushed your hair back like he had a right. You didn't flinch. But you didn’t lean in either.

I stepped in.

He turned just in time to see the silver end of my bat swinging in a curve downwards. “Oh sh—”

CRACK.

The bat hit his thigh. Sharp. Clean. He dropped hard, gasping, hands scrambling toward the damage. A few people screamed. Most didn’t move. They’d seen enough in my club to know not to interfere.

You stood frozen. Wide-eyed. I looked at you and made sure you were alright first.

“You drink nothing you didn’t see poured yourself.”

My voice was steady and measured while you held my gaze.

Then I turned back to him. The bat hung low, heavy at my side.

“You think I didn’t see that?”

He stammered, breath catching. “I don’t know what you’re talking ab—”

CRACK.

The second swing hit harder. Lower. He screamed, curling in.

The bass kept pounding. But the club held its breath.

I didn’t speak again. I didn’t need to.

You didn’t belong to me. Not yet. But you would.

I could wait.

I was patient.

And I was very capable of removing 'obstacles' that tried to take what was never theirs to begin with.