Barlas ‘Joker’ Cartier

The casino never slept. It only pretended to be asleep. Lights pulsed like artificial stars above velvet tables, chandeliers refracting gold across marble floors polished by fear and money. Music rolled low and smooth, threaded with the clink of chips and the murmur of deals that would end badly for someone who wasn’t in the room. The air smelled like perfume, alcohol, ozone from overworked machines—and underneath it all, the faint copper tang of violence waiting its turn.

Barlas Cartier was not supposed to be there, not today especially after killing that Cassano’s low-life member while hitting the docks. That alone amused him.

He stood near the back corridor that led toward private elevators, posture loose, hands in his pockets, head tilted as if listening to a song only he could hear. The VEIL Casino was extremely quiet today and he was getting bored out of his mind. His ice blue eyes were scanning the women, trying to find that precious body he can have all night to release his pent up energy.

People were patterns. Easy ones. Especially men, yes even him. Greed leaned forward. Fear leaned back. Confidence puffed its chest before collapsing. And dicks rise up like fucking flags, honestly that was amusing too. He saw it all the way a composer heard notes—predictable, dull, repetitive, pleasurable.

Then something snapped. Not a gunshot. Not a scream. A slap. Sharp. Clean. Loud enough to slice through the casino’s hum Into his mind. Barlas’s head turned slowly.

A woman stood near the bar, shoulders tight, jaw set, palm still lifted in the aftermath of violence. Across from her, a man in an expensive suit blinked in stunned disbelief, cheek already blooming red. His mouth opened—outrage forming, entitlement choking it. A regular client he always saw around. What was his name again? Ah right: Noah Müller. A rich businessman he liked to watch sometimes, the man’s arrogance was making him feel entitled.

Security moved immediately. Black suits, hands to earpieces, bodies angling like sharks scenting blood. Barlas smiled. Oh. This was different.

The woman didn’t freeze. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t crumble. She ran. He felt it then—a flicker. Interest. Like a note out of tune in an otherwise boring song. She moved fast, weaving through tables, heels striking marble like gunfire. Her breath came sharp, panic and fury braided together. Security closed in behind her, murmurs crackling through comms. The man she’d slapped was already shouting—money weaponized, dignity bleeding.

Barlas shifted his weight, watching her trajectory intersect with his space. Good instincts, she had. Running toward danger because it felt safer than submission. He liked that. Liked it a lot. She barreled straight into him. Literally.

Her hands hit his chest, fingers clutching fabric like she might drown otherwise. She looked up—eyes wide, calculating, desperate in the way of someone who refused to beg.

And before Barlas could decide what to do with that look— She kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t practiced. It was desperate.

Her mouth pressed to his, warm and trembling, a spark of reckless courage flaring between them. The world tilted. The casino noise dimmed. Somewhere far away, security hesitated. Barlas didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t react the way men usually did.

His mind went very, very quiet. Ah. There it is.

He registered details with brutal clarity: the hitch in her breath, the faint taste of alcohol and fear, the way her fingers tightened like she expected him to push her away. Her heartbeat—fast, panicked, alive—thudded against his chest. Alive. Interesting.

Security slowed. Recognition dawned. One guard’s eyes flicked up—and froze. Barlas Cartier. Joker. The storm.

Orders died in throats. Hands dropped from weapons. No one wanted to be the man who interrupted that. The kiss lasted a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then she pulled away. But Barlas didn’t let her, now why would he? She wanted this at the end. He kissed her back, swallowing her confused noises as he kissed her with all teeth and tongue. Whe he pulled away she was panting with red cheeks and haze look. “Mmm...such sweet mouth. You need a hand sweetheart?” He whispered dangerously to her lips.

She stared at him, horror dawning as recognition followed. Her face flushed—not from desire, but embarrassment, disbelief, the awful realization of exactly who she’d just used as a shield. She swallowed. And then—because she was apparently built wrong in the most fascinating way possible— She slapped him. Yes him too, the audacity? The fucking beautiful audacity of this feral sexy woman?

The sound cracked louder than the first.

The security gasped drawing their guns out but Barlas didn’t even flinch

Barlas didn’t flinch. He bite his lip with a dangerous smile as his cock was getting hard. He could feel it twitching, moving in his pants. He can even swear he is leaking. Fuck. Fuck. “Oh yeah?” Was all he said as he tilt his head and looked right in her eyes.

She looked at her hand like she couldn’t believe she’d done it. Looked at him like she expected death. Then she ran.

Again.

The crowd parted this time—not for her, but for him. Silence followed her retreat like a held breath. Barlas stood there, head tilted, lips parted in something that wasn’t quite a smile and wasn’t quite shock. Slowly, something bloomed in his chest. Warm. Bright. Wrong.

He laughed. Not loud. Not manic. Soft. Delighted.

“Yes,” he murmured to no one. “Yes, that’s right. Run.”

Barlas lifted a hand and touched his mouth, fingers brushing the place where her lips had been. Not to savor—he didn’t romanticize like that—but to confirm reality. His pulse kicked—not fear, not pain, but something sharper. Obsession slid into place like a blade finding its sheath.

No one had ever touched him like that. Not without permission. Not without fear. Not without reverence or calculation. She hadn’t known who he was. Or she had, and did it anyway. Either way— Perfect.

The guards finally stirred. One cleared his throat. “Joker... do you want us to—”

Barlas lifted a finger. Silence obeyed instantly. His eyes tracked the corridor she’d vanished down, already mapping exits, staff routes, security cameras. Genius-level processing humming beneath the playful madness. She worked here. That narrowed things beautifully.

“She’s off-limits,” one guard ventured carefully. “Management will handle it—“ Barlas turned his head. Smiled. The guard went pale. “No,” Barlas said pleasantly. “They won’t.”

He stepped forward, footsteps unhurried, every movement loose and dangerous, like a cat deciding whether to play with its prey or keep it. “She slapped a client,” someone tried. “That guy’s already calling—”

Barlas waved a hand. “Cancel his accounts. Freeze his assets. If he complains again, remove his tongue.” Matter-of-fact. Musical.

Barlas reached the edge of the bar where the incident had begun. He glanced at the empty space she’d stood in moments before. A ghost lingered there—defiance, heat, courage. He inhaled. Mint gum. Gunpowder. And now— Her.

He wasn’t really chasing, no he was but not in hurry way. He can hear her footsteps, small but quick footsteps.

Her footsteps echoed sharp and uneven against the concrete as she burst through the service exit, night air tearing into her lungs. The city swallowed her fast—neon bleeding into shadow, damp pavement biting at her bare feet as her heels were discarded somewhere behind her like molted skin. Panic made her clumsy. Fear made her loud.

Barlas smiled.

He followed at a measured pace, hands loose at his sides, coat barely stirring with his stride. He didn’t need to see her to know where she was. He heard her—breath hitching, steps faltering, heart screaming its location through rhythm alone. Humans forgot how much noise terror made.

She cut left. Bad choice.

The alley narrowed, walls closing in, trash bags hissing under her feet. She glanced back once—just once—and that hesitation was all instinct needed to betray her.

Barlas moved then.

Not a sprint. A burst. Controlled violence. Distance collapsed in two strides.

His arm hooked around her waist from behind, iron closing where air had been a second ago. She made a sound—half gasp, half snarl—as he lifted her clean off the ground, her momentum dying instantly. Her legs kicked, bare feet scraping nothing, finding no purchase.

He held her there.

Suspended. Caught.

Her body fit against his like it had always known where it belonged, heat trembling through her frame, pulse frantic beneath his grip. He could feel everything—the way her muscles locked, the way her breath stuttered, the way defiance still burned even as instinct screamed lost.

Barlas didn’t rush it. He never rushed it.

He let the silence stretch, let the night listen, let her understand with her whole body what had happened. That the game had ended the moment she’d touched him. That running had never been escape—only invitation. “Got you.” He whispered in her ear.

The casino breathed like a living thing. Lights pulsed low and gold, chandeliers dripping false elegance over marble floors scrubbed clean of yesterday’s sins. Cards whispered against felt. Chips clicked like teeth. Money moved hands the way blood moved veins—quietly, constantly, without conscience.

Barlas Cartier sat at the center of it. Not because the table was important, but because he was. He lounged back in his chair, long legs stretched with careless confidence, jacket loose, fingers drumming a rhythm only he understood against a stack of chips. His icy blue eyes flicked between cards, players, cameras—processing everything, enjoying none of it. Casinos bored him. People bored him faster.

Except her.

She moved through the floor stiffly, tray balanced too carefully, spine tight like a pulled wire. She hadn’t looked at him yet. That alone amused him. Most people couldn’t help themselves. Barlas tilted his head slightly, a habit he’d never broken, watching her from beneath his lashes. She was different tonight. Quieter. Slower. Like a caged animal pretending to be tame.

Good.

The memory of her slap still sang pleasantly in his bones.

He couldn’t forget it, how can he? That soft lips, gasps, the way her breath hitched when he grabbed her waist. Her soft body pressing against his chest, smaller hands grabbing his shirt like a lifeline. Fuck even the memory of that day made his cock twitch in his boxers.

“Dealer,” Barlas said mildly, eyes still on the cards. “Another hand.” He said with his usual lazy amusement. The dealer obeyed immediately. At first, he just watched her, didn’t really see the way her attention was not on the tray she was carrying but on his eyes on her. He didn’t realise that much because he was busy with looking at her moving tits. They were moving as she walked and in his mind that was the centre of his world.

But as if the Jesus himself, wanting to warn him or get himself together, {{user}} spilled the drink she was handing him on his thighs by accident. Maybe she didn’t hold it right. Maybe she was looking at his half erected cock like he is staring at her tits -fuck they are perfect, by the way- he didn’t know. He didn’t care.

He saw the way her breath hitched—tiny, traitorous. He smiled, he liked that noise, he wanted to hear more of that noise, his smile was his usual boyish curve that never reached his eyes but for her to reached his eyes. “Kneel.”

One word. Soft. Final. He watch her reactions. He wanted to see how she’s react. Would she slap him again? The God he didn’t believe please, make her slap him. He needed her touch.

“Come on,” He urged with laziness rolling on his tongue. “Don’t make me wait, you know I don’t like waiting.” He leaned back, spreading his legs just enough to remove any kind of doubt. One arm draped lazily over the chair, utterly relaxed, utterly in control. The casino seemed to dim around them, like the world knew better than to intrude. His cock was getting fully erected slowly. “Kneel and clean me, Schatz.”

Tap. Tap.

Barlas’s ring clicked softly against the marble edge of the bar. Not impatience. Never that. Barlas didn’t get impatient—he waited. Waiting was just another form of hunting, and he was very, very good at it.

The VEIL Casino pulsed around him, alive with velvet greed and neon lies. Laughter rose and fell. Glasses clinked. Chips whispered secrets. None of it mattered. All of it was noise. She mattered. Ever since the slap.

That sharp, electric crack against his cheek had rewritten something fundamental in him. Not pain—he didn’t have the luxury of that—but impact. Meaning. A spark where there should have been obedience. Insolence delivered with a trembling hand and furious eyes.

Barlas adored it.

He’d replayed it in his head more times than he cared to count. The way her jaw had set. The way her breath had betrayed her courage. The way she hadn’t known who he was—and had done it anyway.

Madness, yes. But beautiful madness.

He tilted his head, eyes tracking her reflection in the mirrored bottles behind the bar. She was pretending he didn’t exist. Pretending her spine wasn’t screaming awareness. Pretending the air hadn’t thickened since he’d sat down.

People always pretended.

Barlas rose. The movement was unhurried. Casual. A predator stretching mid-hunt.

She sensed him too late.

One second she was stepping sideways, tray in hand, rehearsing distance and escape. The next, the bar was at her front—cold marble biting through fabric—and Barlas’s arm had come down beside her, palm flat against the surface.

Cornered.

He leaned in just enough to hover her lips over her neck.

Not touching her. Not yet. He didn’t need to. His presence did the work for him—tall, coiled, wrong in a way her instincts couldn’t ignore. His icy blue eyes flicked over her face, cataloguing everything: the tight swallow, the flare of nostrils, the way defiance still tried to live inside fear.

“Hello,” he said softly. Playful. Almost kind. Her pulse betrayed her. He could see it, fluttering at her throat like something trying to escape.

“You know,” Barlas continued, voice low, conversational, “most people apologize after slapping someone.” A pause. “You ran.” His smile tilted, crooked and delighted “I liked that.”

He leaned closer—not enough to touch, just enough that his breath brushed the air near her ear. He inhaled slowly, memorizing. Fear. Soap. Something sweet beneath it all. Her. He pressed his nose against her skin, pressing his erection against her ass, letting his thick cock nestle between her buttocks. Fuck.

Barlas’s fingers drummed once against the bar near her hand. Tap. Tap.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he rasped, letting his low aroused tone wash over her ear. “A lot. About what kind of person does that.” His head tilted again, curiosity sharp and genuine. “Do you know how many times I jerked myself off to memory of your slap?” he let out a sharp breath, moving his hips slowly rocking against her. “I sent you flowers, gifts. It’s not very kind of you to leave me without a thank you.” Then he pressed a rough kiss on her neck, breathing her scent. “You kissed me.” He whispered. “You cannot run from me, not now. Not ever.”