Chapter 3: Not That Guy

Sable

The energy in the room changed before he even walked in.

You know that hush? The one that isn’t quiet but still feels like someone pulled the tension on a tripwire? That’s what rolled through the bar as the front doors swung open and he stepped through—shadow first, then leather, then sin.

Jarek King.

Black Daggers President.

The man that tried to get into my pants once upon a time.

He looked the same. No—worse. And better. Somehow both.

Broad shoulders, heavier now with power and age. That cut he wore—black leather, silver thread, danger stitched into every patch—hung like a crown. His jaw was sharper, beard trimmed close. Hair shaved on the sides, long on top pulled back in a man bun. 

There was no boy left in him. Only iron. Heat. And something wild behind his eyes that dared anyone to get close enough to burn.

And judging by the chick who launched herself at him before the doors even swung shut, plenty still tried.

Short skirt. Skin-tight tank. Heels too high for her ankles. She was on him like she had a claim, arms looped around his neck, chest smashed to his side.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t say a word.

Just grabbed a handful of her ass—fingers sliding under the hem of that pathetic excuse for a skirt and damn near pulling it to her hips. If anyone in the room had a decent angle, they could probably tell you what color panties she had on.

If she was wearing any.

She giggled, stupid and breathy, and pressed herself tighter to him like she didn’t care that he barely reacted.

Didn’t matter.

She was riding that proximity high like every other club whore with dreams of patching over from backroom mattress to the Prez’s bed.

Jarek let her hang there, walking them both up to the bar where Hannah was pouring doubles.

He said something low.

Hannah handed him a drink.

And that’s when he saw me.

He didn’t startle. Didn’t blink.

Just gave me a single nod. Slow. Deliberate. Meant to cut.

That was all I got.

Not a word. Not a smirk. Not even a “what the fuck happened to you?”

Just a nod.

Like I was an old report he didn’t care to read twice.

Hannah raised a brow as he turned away, leading his toy down toward the other end of the bar.

“Guess you two know each other?”

I stared at my drink.

“Yeah. He hit on me a few years ago,” I muttered. “I told him to kick rocks.”

It had been a hot summer, years back. Back before Steve and I got mixed up with the Vipers, we were rolling through town on fumes and hope, trying to find work between stunt shows. We’d stopped at The Bullet looking for a gig—music, bartending, anything that paid in cash and didn’t ask for names.

I was younger then. Freshly twenty-one, Wild in a way that hadn’t been beaten out of me yet.

He saw me before I saw him.

I’d bent over the jukebox, thumbing through tracklists, when the smell of leather and spice caught me by the throat. His voice followed right after.

“You new in town, or just lost?”

I glanced over my shoulder. He was older than me by at least a good eight, maybe ten years. Just a VP back then. Less beard. More smirk.

“Neither,” I said. “But if you’re offering directions, you can keep them.”

He grinned. “Feisty.”

I stood. “Not interested.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Still the answer.”

His grin faded, just a notch. Like he was filing the moment away.

“You got a name?” he asked.

“Nope.”

He laughed, genuinely amused. “That your answer, or your name?”

“Whichever one gets you to stop talking.”

He stepped closer. “You always this sharp, sweetheart?”

“Only when the wolves get too close.”

His gaze flicked to my brother across the room—Steve watching us like a hawk. Jarek clocked him, then looked back at me.

“Alright,” he said. “No name. No story. Just a girl with a spark plug tongue and a hell of a don’t-touch-me glare.”

I tilted my head. “That bother you?”

“Nope,” he said, backing off. “But I don’t chase girls who think they’re fireproof. Eventually, they learn. Everyone burns.”

I drained my whiskey and waved for another.

Hannah raised a brow but didn’t say anything. Just poured.

Jarek hadn’t looked back once.

Not that I expected him to.

He had his toy—lean, loud, overcompensating—and she was making a show of it now. Laughing at everything he said. Tossing her hair. Wrapping herself around him like a cat in heat. He didn’t seem interested, but he didn’t stop her either.

Just let her play her role.

I took the shot.

Let it burn.

And watched him.

The thing about Jarek King?

He didn’t need to speak to fill a room.

Didn’t need to flex to show strength. It was in the way others moved around him. The way conversations dropped to murmurs when he passed. The way every patched member in the place looked to him for cues—when to laugh, when to stay silent, when to get up and leave.

That was power.

That was presence.

And once upon a time, it had tried to crawl into my lap.

I’d shoved it out and slammed the door.

Hannah slid a fresh whiskey toward me, then nodded toward the girl practically welded to Jarek’s side.

“Didn’t realize it was her turn again.”

I blinked. “Her turn?”

A guy a few stools down snorted. “What do you mean her turn?”

Hannah leaned her elbows on the bar, voice low enough that only the cluster of us could hear. “Prez keeps ’em on rotation. Never the same girl two nights in a row. Never claims anyone. Keeps it clean that way. No expectations.”

My mouth twitched. “That sounds… exhausting.”

The guy laughed. “What’s her name again?”

“Kandy,” Hannah said. “With a K. Because of course it is.”

I glanced back at the girl. She was laughing too loud at something Jarek hadn’t even smiled at. Her hand kept sliding up his chest like she was trying to find a latch.

“She’s one of his favorites,” Hannah added. “Don’t get me wrong. But that girl wants to be his Old Lady so bad she’d set herself on fire if she thought he’d piss on her to put it out.”

The guy barked a laugh. “Damn.”

I winced. “That’s… grim.”

“It’s true,” Hannah said. “If he decided to yank her skirt up and bend her over one of those tables for the whole club to watch, she’d do it. Not because she wants to—because she thinks it’d prove she’s worthy of being claimed.”

I felt my jaw tighten. “That’s not how you get claimed.”

Hannah’s eyes flicked to me. “Exactly. That’s what none of them get.”

The guy squinted. “And how do you know that, bartender?”

Hannah shrugged. “You learn to read people when you stand behind this bar long enough. And that man?” She tipped her chin toward Jarek. “If he ever claimed a woman, it wouldn’t be someone who folds the second he snaps his fingers. He’d want someone who pushes back. Someone who can take his bullshit and give it right back.”

Her gaze slid to me.

“Someone like you.”

I barked out a humorless laugh. “No. Hell no.”

Hannah’s mouth opened, but I shook my head, the motion tugging at my bruised ribs. “I already did the Prez thing. Luke wore a cut, had a crown, talked about loyalty and family and protection. And you know what I got for it?” I lifted my glass, staring into the amber. “Bruises I learned to hide and apologies I learned not to believe.”

“I’m done with men who confuse power with permission,” I said. “So if Jarek King thinks a nod is all I’m worth now, good. Keeps it simple.”