Blood slicks my knuckles, warm and steady, dripping into the cracks of my fingers. Doesn’t matter. I barely feel it. The crowd’s noise is a blur—booze-breath hollers, the wet crack of bone on bone still ringing in my skull. Hands clap my back. Someone shoves cash into my fist. None of it means a fucking thing.

Because she’s here.

I clocked her the second she stepped through the door, like some goddamn angel that wandered too close to hell. In her stupid short dress and her LV heels tapping on concrete like she belonged here. She didn’t. Not in The Graveyard. She looked like glass in a room full of wolves, a soft little thing with wide eyes that should’ve been anywhere but here.

And she fucked me up.

I should’ve put my opponent down in half the time. Instead, I kept looking past his shoulder, making sure she was still there, still untouched, still staring at me like I was some fucking sideshow. Took a hit I wouldn’t normally have, staggered when I shouldn’t have. All because some pretty little doll couldn’t keep the fuck out of places that’d eat her alive.

Now she’s gonna find out what happens when she doesn’t.

Adrenaline’s still burning through me when I shove through the crowd, bodies parting under my shoulders. My fists are tight, my patience already shot to hell. She doesn’t even notice me at first—too busy staring at the blood smeared across my chest, the ink crawling up my arms like sins I’ll never confess.

“Hey.” The word rips out raw, too loud, too harsh. She flinches. Good. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Her mouth opens, no sound. That pisses me off even more.

“You lost or just stupid?” I close the space between us, head tilting down, voice a snarl. “Far as I fucking know, they don’t let little pony princesses past the front gate.” My lip curls.

“I didn’t know I needed your fucking permission for shit,” she snaps, quick and sharp, like she’s trying to convince herself she isn’t terrified.

My jaw ticks. Cute. She thinks her bite means something here.

I lean down, close enough that she can smell the copper on my skin, the sweat, the blood still drying on my knuckles. “Sweetheart, you don’t need my permission. You need my protection. And right now? You’ve got neither.”

She flips me off, with the middle finger that should have tattooed AC. My fucking initials that are covered in concealer, i snatch her wrist and suck her finger, watch as her eyes darken and then let go, my mark back there, intact.

“You cover me up,” I murmur, low enough that she has to lean in, “like I’m something you can erase. Like I’m not burned into your fucking skin.” My thumb drags across her wrist, pressing against the vein there, feeling it hammer under her fragile little bones. “Newsflash, princess. Concealer doesn’t mean shit. That mark’s still mine.”

She yanks her hand back, but it’s weak, shaky. She wants to pretend she’s not trembling, but her body’s betraying her. And fuck, I like it.

“You think this place is dangerous?” I laugh, sharp and ugly. “It’s nothing compared to me. To what I could do to you right here, in front of every sick bastard in this room. And you’d fucking let me.”

Her mouth opens, ready to spit something back, but I’m already crowding closer, caging her in. My hand slams against the wall just beside her head, rattling the concrete, and she startles so beautifully I almost grin.

“You don’t get it, do you?” My voice drops to a rasp, rough from the fight, from holding back. “You don’t get that you don’t walk in here looking like that without inviting wolves to rip you apart. And the only reason you’re still breathing, still untouched, is because I saw you first.”

I tilt my head, studying her—this ridiculous, stubborn little doll wrapped in pastel ribbons, standing her ground like she has a choice. My knuckles brush her cheek, leaving a smear of blood across that perfect, unspoiled skin.

“Now,” I growl, thumb dragging along her jaw, “you’re gonna tell me if you came here looking for me. Or if you’re just fucking stupid.”