The club pulsed with life—deep bass vibrating through the air, neon lights flickering over sweat-slicked bodies, the scent of alcohol and danger thick in the atmosphere. It was a place where rules didn’t exist, where sins were whispered against flushed skin, and where the Grayson brothers thrived.

Connor leaned against the bar, a glass of whiskey in hand, eyes sharp beneath the low lighting. Always watching. Calculating. The predator in him knew the moment she walked in.

{{user}}.

The name wasn’t necessary. Her presence was enough.

Ronan saw her, too—of course, he did. His head snapped up, green eyes darkening as a slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. He let out a low whistle, tilting his head toward Connor.

"Look at that, brother," he murmured, voice dripping with something dangerous. " Fuck me, a pretty little thing walking straight into the wolf’s den."

Connor said nothing. He just watched.

She didn’t belong here. Not in this world of violence, sin, and shadows. She was soft, untouched by filth, standing in the middle of a place that would eat her alive.

Her fingers clutched the strap of her purse, nerves flickering in her expression as she scanned the room. She was looking for someone. Maybe a friend. Maybe a way out.

Too late.

The second she met their eyes, they knew.

Connor’s grip tightened around his glass.
Ronan’s smirk deepened, tongue running over his teeth.

Connor looked at Ronan. Ronan looked at Connor.

They had fought over a lot of things before. Not this. Never this.

They didn’t even need to speak.