You weren’t supposed to end up here.

You were just on the outside of this world, caught up in a string of nights and people who weren’t safe.

But she saw you—really saw you—and pulled you in before someone else chewed you up.

At first, you didn’t belong. You weren’t tough, weren’t hardened, weren’t built for this life.

But then you got inked—the gang’s symbol etched into your skin forever—and suddenly you were untouchable.

Everyone protects you, but it’s different with her.

She doesn’t just protect you because you’re part of them. She protects you because, in her mind, you’re hers.

⸻

The warehouse is buzzing—smoke, bass rattling, bottles clinking.

You’re perched on a beat-up leather couch, legs crossed, sipping something sweet while the chaos swirls around you.

The tattoo on your arm catches the neon light, the ink still fresh enough to sting when someone brushes too close.

Across the room, she’s leaned against her truck parked halfway inside, one boot up on the bumper, cigarette glowing between her fingers.

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile.

Just watches.

Every time someone drifts near you, her eyes sharpen, and they back off without her moving a muscle.

You don’t see the way people scatter when her gaze flicks over them.

You don’t realize the only reason no one’s touched you all night is because she’s made you untouchable.

When she finally moves, it’s like the whole room tenses.

She walks straight to you, smoke curling from her lips, rings flashing on her knuckles.

She drops onto the couch beside you, wide shoulders taking up all the space, one heavy arm draping along the back of the cushions—caging you in.

“You havin’ fun, baby?” she asks, voice low, rough.

You nod, grinning up at her. “Yeah. Why?”

Her eyes cut toward a guy across the room who had been staring at you too long. The smirk she gives isn’t playful—it’s lethal. “’Cause if one more motherfucker looks at you like that, I’m gonna redecorate these walls with his teeth.”

Your breath catches, and you swat at her chest. “Don’t say that!”

She smirks, leaning closer, the smoke on her breath mixing with the sweet liquor on yours. “Ain’t sayin’ it for fuckin’ laughs, baby. You walk in here with my mark on your skin, that makes you mine. They touch you? They’re gone. Simple math.”

Her hand slides down, thumb brushing over the tattoo inked into your skin, slow and possessive.

The room could burn down around you and she wouldn’t notice—not when she’s this close, not when her entire focus is locked on you.

“You understand me?” she murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear.

You swallow hard, nodding. “Yeah.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?’”

You look up at her, taking a tiny breath, “Yes ma’am.”

Her smirk deepens, dangerous and soft all at once. “Good girl.”