Even the girl on Jack's arm was laughing—she tried to hide it behind her hand, but her whole body shook with it.

Tommy had just dick-slammed Jack Morrison in the most public way possible. In front of his crew. In front of girls he was trying to impress. In front of the entire Lincoln Club who would spread this story to every social circle in LA by tomorrow morning about the Morrison Prince's dick game.

Complete and total annihilation.

Jack's face went from red to purple. Not embarrassment—pure, unfiltered rage. That mask of calm shattered completely, revealing what was underneath: humiliated eighteen-year-old who'd just been destroyed by someone he'd always considered beneath him.

His fist came up—no warning, no thought, just pure animal reaction—swinging toward Tommy's face with every ounce of wounded pride and anger behind it.

Time slowed.

My body moved before conscious thought finished processing.

One second I was seated at the bar. Next second I was there—grabbed Tommy's collar, yanked him backward hard enough that he stumbled and nearly fell. His drunk reflexes were too slow, but mine weren't. Pulled him completely out of range a split-second before Jack's fist would have shattered his nose.

And caught Jack's wrist mid-swing.

My hand closed around his wrist like industrial vice, stopping his punch with force that made audible impact.

Not just stopped—dominated. I felt bones grinding together under my grip, felt him instinctively try to pull back and fail completely because I was stronger now, so much stronger than he could comprehend.

Our eyes met.

And for the first time in his privileged life, I saw real fear flicker across Jack Morrison's face.

Then I shoved.

Not hard—didn't need to be hard. Just redirected his momentum, sent him stumbling backward three steps until he caught his balance, clutching his wrist and staring at me with this expression mixing shock and growing rage and something that looked suspiciously like panic.

"You little—" He looked at his wrist—already bruising, already swelling—then back at me.

And attacked.

Came at me with both hands this time, throwing all technique out the window in favor of pure aggression.

I caught both his hands—one motion, fingers wrapping around both wrists—and his forward momentum just... stopped. Like he'd hit a wall made of physics that refused to negotiate.

Time for a lesson in humiliation.

SLAP.

Open-handed across his face—deliberate choice, more insulting than a punch—the sound echoing through the club louder than the music. Sharp, clear, unmistakable.

His head snapped to the left.

SLAP.

Other direction, same force, same deliberate humiliation.

His head snapped right.

I grabbed his shoulder and pushed—not threw, just firmly redirected with strength he couldn't hope to match—and Jack went flying backward into the nearby chairs. They scattered under his weight with loud crashes and clatters, Jack landing in a heap of furniture and shattered dignity.

For exactly one second, Lincoln Club was perfectly silent except for the music.

Then Jack's crew moved.

All seven of them making simultaneous decision to defend their fallen leader. Pool cues raised like weapons. Faces showing that particular combination of anger and pack mentality that made groups dangerous even when individuals weren't.

The blonde linebacker came first—fastest, biggest, probably thought his size made him intimidating. He swung the pool cue like a baseball bat, aiming for my head with enough force to cause serious damage.

I ducked under it—easy, almost lazy—feeling the cue whistle past where my head had been a second ago. Came up inside his reach and drove my palm into his solar plexus—not full strength, didn't want to kill him, just enough to make breathing difficult.

He folded like a cheap lawn chair, pool cue clattering to the floor as he dropped to his knees gasping for air.

Two more came at me simultaneously—dark-haired guy from my left, redhead from my right, attempting to flank me with pool cues raised.

I let the aura pulse once—just once, just enough—and watched them hesitate. Not stopping completely, but their confidence wavered, their attacks became uncertain.

I grabbed a chair—one of the ones Jack had crashed into—and swung it in a wide arc.

The dark-haired guy got it in the ribs. Heard something crack—hopefully just the chair—and he went down hard.

The redhead managed to swing his cue at me. I caught it mid-swing with one hand—just grabbed it out of the air like catching a thrown ball—and yanked hard. He came with the cue, off-balance, stumbling forward right into my waiting fist.

Lights out. He crumpled.

Three down. Four to go.

The remaining four had enough sense to not attack individually. They spread out, trying to surround me, pool cues raised, moving with coordination that came from actually playing team sports together.

Smart. But not smart enough.

One came from behind—I heard his footsteps on the polished concrete. I spun, grabbed his wrist as the cue came down, twisted hard—heard his shoulder pop out of socket—and used his own momentum to throw him into one of his buddies. They went down in a tangle of limbs and groaning.

Five down. Two remaining plus Jack still trying to extract himself from the chairs.

The last two looked at each other, looked at their fallen crew, looked at me standing there barely winded, and I saw the exact moment they reconsidered their life choices.

"Anyone else?" I asked, voice carrying calm that was somehow more threatening than shouting.

They dropped their pool cues. Actual dropped them, the clattering sound loud in the now-silent club.

Smart kids.

Jack finally managed to stand up, furniture scattering around him, face purple with rage and humiliation. He looked at his crew—seven guys, all down or backing away, defeated by one person they used to throw in trash cans.

"You—YOU FUCKING—" He couldn't even finish the sentence, rage choking his words.

I walked toward him—slow, deliberate, letting each step carry weight. The crowd parted automatically, creating a path, everyone pressing back to give space to whatever was about to happen.

Jack tried to back up. Actually tried to retreat. But there was nowhere to go—pool table behind him, defeated crew around him, me in front of him.

I stopped within arm's reach.

"You want to call Sofia trash one more time?" My voice was quiet. Calm. Absolutely fucking terrifying in its control. "You want to talk about my woman like that again?"

"She—she IS trash—" He tried to maintain defiance but his voice shook.

SLAP.

Harder this time. Hard enough his head whipped around. Hard enough I saw blood on his lip.

"Try again."

"Fuck you—"

SLAP.

Other direction. His knees buckled slightly.

I grabbed his shirt, pulled him close enough to smell the fear-sweat, close enough to see his pupils dilate with genuine terror.

"Listen very carefully, Jack. This is the only warning you'll ever get." My voice stayed quiet, but the Lust Presence leaked through, making my words feel like physical pressure. "You don't talk about Sofia. You don't talk about Tommy. You don't talk about me. You don't even THINK about us. Because the next time you do, I won't stop at humiliation."

I shoved him back into the pool table. He caught himself, barely, looking at me with this expression mixing hatred and fear and complete confusion about how the universe had flipped this hard.

The old Peter Carter wouldn't have fought back.

The new one? The one with zero tolerance for bullshit?

He didn't just fight back. He dominated.

I turned away from Jack, walked back to where Tommy stood—still by the bar, drink somehow still in hand, looking absolutely amazed.

"You good?" I asked.

"Dude." Tommy's voice was reverent. "That was the most badass thing I've ever seen. Like, ever. In my entire life. You just—they were SEVEN of them—and you just—"

"I know. Drink your whiskey."

"My whiskey is gone. I dropped it somewhere during—" He looked around, found his empty glass on the bar. "Oh. There it is."

The club was still silent. Two hundred people staring at us. At the defeated crew. At Jack Morrison who'd just had his entire world view shattered.

Then someone started clapping.

Then another person.

Then the entire fucking club erupted in applause and cheers that drowned out even the music.

Reyna appeared behind the bar, grinning like Christmas had come early. "That? THAT is the most entertainment I've had all year. Drinks are on the house for you two. All night."

"Really?"

"Fuck yeah really. You just beat up seven football players and humiliated the Jack Morrison? That's worth free alcohol."

Tommy raised his empty glass. "I'll take that whiskey now!"

I settled back onto my barstool, feeling adrenaline start to fade, leaving behind satisfaction and slight soreness in my knuckles.

Jack and his crew were limping toward the exit. Defeated. Humiliated. Seven guys who came in thinking they owned the place, leaving broken and embarrassed because they'd picked a fight with someone who'd evolved beyond their understanding.

Old hierarchy meeting new power.

And new power won decisively.

Tommy leaned close, voice dropping to whisper despite his drunk state. "Dude. That was fucking LEGENDARY. They're going to talk about this for YEARS."

"Probably."

"Jack Morrison got his ass kicked. His ENTIRE CREW got demolished. By Peter Carter. The same Peter Carter they used to throw in trash cans."

"I remember."

"This is—" Tommy struggled for words. "This is better than anything we dreamed about. Better than just getting into the club. We CONQUERED the club. We're fucking LEGENDS now."

He wasn't wrong.

The night we'd dreamed about for years had somehow exceeded even our wildest drunk fantasies.

And we were just getting started.

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