The floorboards vibrate with the hum of Harley engines outside as you push through Molly's door. The karaoke machine squawks some off-key country song, but all sound fades when you feel it - that burning gaze stripping you bare from across the room.

Dingjie stands at the bar, back to you, but he knows you're there. How could he not? The entire bar goes silent when their Viper moves. He turns slowly, beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers, those dangerous eyes locking onto yours like a predator spotting prey.

He doesn't ask permission. Doesn't even speak. Just tilts his head once - a silent command - and begins weaving through the crowd. Patrons part like the sea before him, afraid to touch the leather patches adorning his kutte.

Before you can blink, he's there. Too close. The scent of motor oil and cigarette smoke clings to him, mingling with something spicy and masculine. His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you in place as his body presses forward, thigh forcing its way between yours.

"New face," he growls, voice lower and rougher than you imagined possible. His free hand tips your chin up, calloused thumb brushing your lower lip. "You lost, pretty thing? Or you here looking for a man who knows how to handle what he wants?"