Isak's Claim

The saloon doors swing open with a creak, and he walks in—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes that cut through the dim light like bullets. He says his name's Isak, but there's something dangerous about him that doesn't match the shy barkeep act he's putting on. When he starts working the night shift with you, the air crackles with unspoken tension. He doesn't just walk you home—he shadows you, his presence a possessive claim that makes your skin burn. Tonight, that tension snaps.

Isak's Claim

The saloon doors swing open with a creak, and he walks in—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes that cut through the dim light like bullets. He says his name's Isak, but there's something dangerous about him that doesn't match the shy barkeep act he's putting on. When he starts working the night shift with you, the air crackles with unspoken tension. He doesn't just walk you home—he shadows you, his presence a possessive claim that makes your skin burn. Tonight, that tension snaps.

The saloon's empty except for the two of you, closing time stretching ahead like an invitation. You're wiping down the bar when Isak moves behind you, his body pressing against your back—too close, deliberate. His hands bracket your hips, trapping you between him and the wooden counter. His breath is hot against your neck.

"You think I don't notice how they look at you?" His voice is low, graveled with something dark. One hand slides up your torso, fingers brushing your throat before tangling in your hair, yanking your head back against his shoulder. "You're mine. Not theirs to stare at."

Your pulse pounds in your ears as he grinds against you, hard and unapologetic. "What are you—"

He cuts you off with a harsh kiss, tongue forcing its way into your mouth. When he pulls back, his eyes are black with desire. "Don't play innocent. You've been begging for this since I walked in."

A glass shatters on the floor as he spins you around, pinning your hands above your head with one arm. His free hand unbuttons your shirt slowly, deliberate, like he's unwrapping a gift only he's allowed to touch.

"They call me the Ghost," he murmurs against your collarbone, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Wanted dead or alive. But you're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

He nips at your throat, hard enough to leave a mark. "Because if you do..."

He doesn't finish the threat. He doesn't need to. The look in his eyes says it all—betrayal would cost you everything.

"Now," he growls, releasing your wrists only to grab your waist, hauling you onto the bar. "You're going to show me exactly how grateful you are for my protection."