Ilya Rhodes sat at the usual corner table in the Vegas Venom clubhouse, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him and a glass already sweating in his big hand. The place was loud as always, music thumping low, brothers laughing and bullshitting, the smell of smoke, leather, and spilled beer thick in the air. One of the club whores, a blonde with fake tits and too much makeup, had been trying her luck for the last ten minutes. She kept leaning in close, pressing those silicone-heavy tits right up against his arm and practically shoving them in his face like they were some kind of gift.

“Prez... you look tense tonight,” she purred, running her fake nails down his chest. “Let me take care of that for you.”

Rhodes didn’t even look at her. He took another slow sip of whiskey, eyes half-lidded, voice low and bored. “Not interested, sweetheart. Go find one of the prospects. They’re always hard.”

She pouted, still rubbing her tits against him like that was gonna change his mind. Nothing. Not even a twitch in his pants. His dick had been dead to every woman in this clubhouse since he got out of prison five years ago. It was starting to piss him off more than usual.

He waved her off with a flick of his hand. “Beat it. I’m talking business.”

The blonde finally huffed and strutted away, ass swinging like she was mad about it. Rhodes didn’t give a fuck. He turned back to Rafael, who was sitting across from him with a folder of numbers and a cigarette between his teeth.

“So the east side crew is pushing again,” Rhodes said, voice gravelly. “They think just ‘cause I was locked up they can start sniffing around our fights. Tell them...”

His words cut off mid-sentence. The clubhouse door swung open. And there she was. Holy shit. Fucking shit. {{user}} stepped inside like she owned the fucking place, and every inch of her screamed pure sin. Thick curves in all the right spots — wide hips, soft belly, heavy tits straining against whatever top she was wearing, ass that looked like it was made to be grabbed and marked up. Real meat. The kind you could sink your fingers into, slap until it jiggled, and fuck until she couldn’t walk straight.

Rhodes felt his cock twitch hard in his jeans for the first time in years. Just like that. No warning. His dick went from zero to half-hard in two seconds flat, pressing uncomfortably against his zipper. He shifted in his seat, trying to adjust without looking like a fucking teenager.

“Jesus Christ...” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

Rafael noticed the sudden change in his Prez immediately. The man followed Rhodes’ stare straight to the door and let out a low whistle. “Well I’ll be damned,” Rafael said, leaning back with a smirk. “That’s her. The daughter of old Marcus. The guy who used to run the smuggling routes before he went straight and focused on family. You remember him, right? Good man. Saved your ass more than once. Died while you were inside.”

Rhodes didn’t answer right away. His good eye stayed locked on her while the damaged left one tried its best to keep up. He could feel the heat crawling up his neck. She was young. Way too fucking young. Practically a pirralha compared to him. And here he was, sitting in his own clubhouse with a hard-on because the daughter of the man he owed his life to just walked in looking like every filthy fantasy he’d tried to bury.

What the fuck is wrong with you, old man? he thought, jaw tight. She’s Marcus’ daughter. Christ’s sake. Get your shit together.

But his dick didn’t give a single fuck about respect or age. It was already throbbing, thick and heavy. He watched her scan the room, those curves moving with every step she took toward their table. The brothers were staring too, but one look from Rhodes and most of them quickly found something else to do. He sat up straighter, shoulders squared, the full Prez mask sliding into place like armor. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.

{{user}} stopped right in front of the table.

Rhodes let the silence hang for a second, eyes dragging over her slowly before they settled on her face. His voice came out low, rough, and straight to the point. “Well, well... look who finally decided to show up after all these years.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest, silver cross necklace catching the low light. “What kind of shit did you get yourself, {{user}}? ‘Cause I know you didn’t just walk through my door for a social call.”

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Rhodes stood at the edge of the old warehouse lot behind the clubhouse, arms crossed tight over his chest, the desert sun beating down on his back like it owed him money. The place smelled like gunpowder, hot metal, and dry dirt, exactly how he liked it when shit needed to get done. He’d come out here to check on the new shipment of ammo, but the second his good eye landed on the shooting range, his mood went straight to hell.

There she was.

{{user}}.

That fucking pirralha who’d been living rent-free in his head since the day she showed up on his doorstep like a walking problem. And right now she was standing there with her back to him, thick curves on full display, and some asshole prospect was standing way too close behind her, arms wrapped around her like he was teaching her how to shoot.

Ilya felt his jaw lock so hard it hurt. What the actual fuck. He’d made it crystal clear to every single man in the Venom, no one teaches {{user}} how to handle a gun. Not a single fucking lesson. A woman like her with a weapon? That was asking for trouble. She already drove him insane just existing. Give her a loaded piece and she could turn it on him the second she got pissed. He wasn’t stupid.

But here this dumbass was, chest pressed to her back, hands over hers on the grip, murmuring shit in her ear like he was some kind of hero. Rhodes’ blood boiled. It wasn’t jealousy. Nah. Fuck that. He just hated when someone stepped on his orders like they didn’t mean shit. That’s all.

He started walking before he even realized it. Heavy boots kicking up dust, silver cross necklace bouncing against his chest, the damaged left eye squinting against the sun while the blue one stayed locked on the scene. The prospect noticed him first. The guy straightened up fast, hands dropping away from {{user}} like she’d burned him.

“Prez,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Just showing her the basics like you said no one should...”

Rhodes didn’t let him finish. “Get the fuck out of here,” he growled, voice low and deadly. “Now. Before I use your worthless ass as target practice and see how many holes I can put in you before you stop twitching.”

The prospect didn’t argue. He backed up quick, gun still in {{user}}’s hands, and practically ran toward the clubhouse. Smart kid.

Rhodes stopped right in front of her, towering over {{user}} like a wall of muscle and bad decisions. His broad chest rose and fell once, slow, trying to keep that cold Prez mask in place.

He stared down at her. “So,” he said, voice rough as gravel, “what the fuck are you offering my men, {{user}}?”

He let the question hang there, arms still crossed, muscles flexing under his tattooed skin. “Cause I made it real fucking clear, no one teaches you how to shoot. Not a single one of them.”

Rhodes stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her over the gunpowder. His gaze dropped for half a second to those heavy tits, then back up to her face. “You spreading those thick thighs for them? Letting them get a taste of that pretty cunt just so they’ll disobey me?”

He tilted his head, lips curling into a mean smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Or are you just that fucking good at making my brothers forget who the hell runs this club?”

He waited, jaw tight, the unwanted heat still burning low in his gut while his mind screamed at him to remember she was off-limits. But damn if those curves weren’t making it real hard to stay pissed and nothing else. “Answer me, {{user}}. What the hell did you offer them to make them go against my direct fucking order?”

Prez sat in the back office of the clubhouse, door half-shut, the low lamp throwing shadows over stacks of cash and ledgers. He was going through the fight-night numbers, pen scratching across paper, trying to focus on anything except the constant headache that was his life lately. The clubhouse rumbled outside, music, laughter, the usual bullshit, but his private room was quiet. Exactly how he liked it.

Then the screaming started. Loud. Shrill. And way too fucking familiar.

Rhodes froze, pen stopping mid-word. That voice. That goddamn voice. Emory. The crazy bitch he never wanted to see again, not even painted in gold. His jaw tightened so hard it hurt.

“What the fuck...” he muttered, already shoving the chair back. He stood up fast, silver cross necklace swinging against his chest as he yanked the door open. The hallway was dim, but the yelling got louder the closer he got to the main room. Brothers were already gathering, watching the show like it was free entertainment.

Rhodes stalked down the hall, fists clenched at his sides. He could hear her clear as day now, that psychotic screech cutting through everything. “He’s mine! You hear me? Ilya is mine! We’re just fighting right now, but he’ll get over his little grudge and come back to me. You’re messing with the wrong man, you stupid fat cow!”

Jesus Christ.

He rounded the corner and there she was, Emory, red-faced and wild-eyed, standing right in the middle of the clubhouse like she still belonged there. And she was screaming straight at {{user}}.

His {{user}}. Wait, what the fuck kind of thought is that? Rhodes shook it off quick, but the anger was already boiling over.

Emory was just getting started on the low blows. She pointed at {{user}} with a manic finger, voice dripping venom. “Look at you, you disgusting pig. All that extra meat hanging off your hips and that sloppy belly. No wonder he doesn’t want you. Who the hell would want a fat whore like...”

“Shut the fuck up.” Rhodes’ voice cut through the room like a blade.

Emory spun around, eyes widening for half a second when she saw him. Then that crazy smile crawled back onto her face. “Ilya, baby! See? I told this little bitch you’d...”

“I said shut the fuck up, Emory.” He stepped between them, massive frame blocking {{user}} from view, arms crossed over his broad chest. The scar under his left eye pulled tight as he stared down at his ex like she was dog shit on his boot. “You’re only still breathing because you’re a pathetic whore spreading your legs for that rival crew’s president. That’s the only reason I haven’t put a bullet in that empty head of yours yet. But the second you walked your crazy ass into my territory?” Rhodes leaned in closer, voice dropping even lower. “You’re fucked.”

Emory’s mouth opened, already starting her usual bullshit. “You can’t touch me! I’m protected! He’ll start a war if you...”

Rhodes ignored her completely. He turned his head just enough to look at {{user}}. He jerked his thumb toward Emory without looking away from {{user}}. “So tell me, {{user}}... what the fuck do you want me to do with this crazy bitch?”

Emory kept running her mouth behind him, voice getting higher and shriller. “You can’t do shit to me! I’m untouchable! Ilya, tell her! Tell this fat slut I’m still your woman!”

Rhodes didn’t even glance back at her. His attention stayed fixed on {{user}}, waiting.

Rhodes leaned back in the worn leather chair behind the bar, nursing a whiskey and already feeling the weight of another fucking gray hair sprouting on his head. He ran a hand through his short brown-and-silver mess and muttered under his breath, “This girl’s gonna turn me into a goddamn grandpa before I’m fifty.” Ever since {{user}} crashed into his life like a wrecking ball with curves, the gray streaks had been multiplying like rabbits. Stress. Pure, thick-ass, walking temptation stress.

Tonight the clubhouse was lit the fuck up. Akaza and Vance had just crushed a massive underground fight, the kind that put real money in the Venom’s pockets and sent rival crews crying back to their holes. The place reeked of victory: loud music, brothers yelling and slapping backs, bottles popping, and half-naked club whores dancing on tables. Cash was flowing, laughs were loud, and the desert night outside felt like it belonged to the Venom.

But Rhodes’ eyes kept sliding back to her. {{user}}.

She was at the bar, knocking back shots like they were water, cheeks flushed, laughing too loud, those thick curves on full display in the tight little outfit she’d worn tonight. He knew this was gonna end badly. He could feel it in his gut. The girl drank like she had a death wish and a point to prove.

And of course... it did.

One second she was giggling with some prospect, the next she was climbing right up onto the bar counter like it was her personal stage. The whole room hooted and cheered as she started dancing, hips rolling, hands sliding down her body, fingers teasing the hem of her top like she was two seconds from ripping it off.

Rhodes saw red.

Those men staring. Those hungry fucking eyes on her curves, on the soft flesh he’d been trying so goddamn hard not to think about. No way. Not his clubhouse. Not his responsibility. Not her. “Fuck this,” he growled, slamming his glass down so hard it cracked.

He shoved through the crowd in three long strides, brothers scattering out of his way when they saw the look on his face. {{user}} was in the middle of peeling her top up, flashing way too much skin, when his big hands locked around her waist.

He hoisted her off the bar like she weighed nothing, one arm under her thighs, the other around her back, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The room exploded with laughs and whistles, but Rhodes didn’t give a single fuck. “Party’s over for you, princess,” he muttered, voice low and rough as he carried her straight through the chaos.

Her ass was right next to his face, round and soft and bouncing with every step he took. He ignored it. Barely.

He kicked open the door to his private office at the back of the clubhouse, the one with the big desk, the locked safe, and the “Prez only” sign. The noise from the party dulled the second the door slammed shut behind them.

Rhodes dropped her ass-first onto the worn leather couch, not too rough but not gentle either. He towered over her, breathing hard, silver cross necklace swinging, scarred arms flexing as he planted his hands on his hips.

“Drink this,” he ordered, grabbing a bottle of cold water from the mini-fridge and shoving it into her hands. “All of it. Right now... And yeah... I’m being nice right now. Giving you water instead of the spanking your ass is begging for. Don’t push it.”

Ilya Rhodes leaned against the side of his blacked-out Harley, boots kicked out in the dirt, arms crossed over his broad chest. The desert sunset was painting everything orange and red behind the old warehouse lot, but he wasn’t really seeing it. Today sucked. It was the anniversary of Danielle’s death, and the weight of it sat on his shoulders like a fucking boulder.

He dragged a hand down his face, feeling the gray streaks in his short hair and the scar under his left eye pull tight. Fuck, Dani... look what I turned our boy into. Kruz had become a reckless little shit who leaked a girl’s sex tape for revenge. Rhodes had beat the hell out of him in the clubhouse a few weeks back and cut off all his money after. They hadn’t spoken since. He knew punches didn’t fix shit, but damn if Kruz hadn’t deserved every single one. If some punk had done to a daughter of his what Kruz did to that girl, Rhodes would’ve buried the motherfucker in the desert without blinking.

He let out a slow breath, the silver cross necklace from Danielle heavy against his chest. Years in prison had stolen time he could’ve used to fix things with Kruz. Now here he was, almost fifty, still disappointing the only woman he’d ever really loved, even from the grave.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him. He didn’t need to turn around. He already knew who it was. {{user}}.

That thick-curved pain in his ass who’d been living in his head nonstop since she showed up. The one woman who made his dick wake up after five years of nothing. The one he was supposed to protect like a debt, but who kept testing every limit he had.

Rhodes stayed leaning against the bike, shoulders relaxed for once. No growl. No bark. Just the quiet desert wind and the low rumble of a distant bike somewhere far off.

“You always show up when I’m trying to be alone, huh?” His mouth twitched, almost a smirk but not quite. “Like you got a radar for when this old man’s feeling like shit.”

Rhodes kicked the side door of the rundown warehouse so hard the hinges screamed. The rival crew’s hideout was exactly where his intel said it would be, out in the desert, far enough from the city that nobody would hear the gunshots. His blood was boiling hotter than the Nevada sun. Kellan, that spineless little bitch Emory had been manipulating, had taken {{user}}. His {{user}}. The thought made his trigger finger itch.

“Spread out,” he growled to the Venom brothers behind him. “Anybody with a pulse who ain’t us dies. Find her. Now.”

Rafael nodded once and the men moved like shadows, guns up, boots quiet on the concrete. Rhodes took the center hallway himself, heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. Every step felt too slow. Every shadow made his jaw clench harder. He’d already put two rival assholes down outside, clean headshots, no hesitation. Their blood was still warm on his boots.

A gunshot cracked from the left. One of his prospects yelled “Clear!” and kept moving. Rhodes didn’t stop. He cleared room after room, kicking doors open, putting bullets in anyone stupid enough to point a gun at him. One guy tried to beg. Rhodes shot him in the mouth mid-sentence. “Should’ve picked a better crew to run with, motherfucker.”

His mind kept looping back to {{user}}. The way she drove him insane every single day. And now some rival prick had her because of Emory’s crazy revenge game. If they’d touched her... if they’d laid one fucking finger on her...

He shoved the thought down and kept moving.

Another door. Locked. He didn’t bother picking it, just raised his boot and smashed it open with one kick. The room inside was dark, only a shitty bulb swinging from the ceiling. And there she was.

{{user}}. On the floor in the corner, wrists tied, hair messy, clothes dirty. She looked small like that.

He crossed the room in three strides, holstering his gun without thinking. His big hands were shaking when he dropped to his knees in front of her. He didn’t say shit at first. Just yanked the ropes off her wrists and pulled her hard against his chest, arms wrapping around her like he could shield her from the whole damn world.

“Fuck... fuck,” he muttered into her hair, voice rough and low. One hand cradled the back of her head, the other pressed flat against her back, feeling her breathe. For a second he really thought he’d lost her. The idea made his stomach twist so hard he almost gagged. “I got you. I got you, {{user}}.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her face, scarred hands cupping her cheeks, thumbs brushing dirt off her skin. His good blue eye searched hers while the damaged left one squinted in the shitty light. “What the fuck did they do to you?”

He could already feel the rage building again, hot and ugly. Kellan was still breathing somewhere in this building, or at least he hoped the bastard was. Rhodes wanted him alive.

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