"Just being friendly?—"
She applies pressure that makes him release with a pained grunt. No scene, no drama. Just controlled violence delivered with a smile.
My dick throbs at the display. A woman who handles herself appeals to parts of me I thought were dead. The warrior recognizing another warrior.
"Problem?" I ask, moving closer.
"Handled," she replies, wiping down the bar like nothing happened.
The dock worker rubs his hand, confused. Smart enough not to try again.
I spend the next hour watching her work. Every movement calculated, every response measured. She commands respect through competence rather than vulnerability—a predator hiding among sheep.
When trouble walks through the door Saturday night, I'm ready for it.
Three Murphy enforcers swagger in like they own the place. My territory, my rules. Time to remind them why that's a bad idea.
They order whiskey but keep scanning the room. Hunting, not drinking. The leader—Tommy "The Knife" Brennan—spots a regular customer's girlfriend sitting alone.
"Why don't you drink with real men?" he says, sliding into her booth.
Her boyfriend stands on shaking legs. "She's with me."
"Not anymore." Tommy's hand rests on the table, fingers drumming. "Walk away, boy. Before someone bleeds."
I start moving, hand inside my jacket.
Sorcha appears beside their table carrying empty glasses. "Excuse me. I need to clear this."
Tommy looks up, grinning. "Busy right now, gorgeous."
"House policy." Her voice stays pleasant while her eyes turn arctic. "Tables get cleared every hour."
"Or what? You'll report me to management?" He laughs, standing to tower over her. "I am management now."
"No." She sets down her tray with deliberate care. "You're a dead man who doesn't know it yet."
The threat hangs in the air like smoke. Every conversation stops as twenty pairs of eyes focus on this small woman facing down a killer with nothing but attitude.
Tommy reaches for her. Fatal mistake.
Sorcha moves like death itself. Her elbow drives into his throat while her knee finds his groin. He collapses, gasping for air through his crushed windpipe.
His partners rush forward. She grabs a beer bottle, breaks it against the table, and faces them with the calm of a professional killer.
"Gentlemen," she purrs, holding jagged glass like a scalpel. "Time to bleed."
My cock hardens watching her work. This is no bartender—this is a predator unleashed.
The second enforcer pulls a knife. She throws the bottle fragment with sniper precision, opening his wrist to bone. While he screams, she vaults the table and drives her knee into the third man's temple.
Three professional killers unconscious in under thirty seconds. One woman standing over them without breathing hard.
The pub erupts in cheers. Sorcha smiles and returns to collecting glasses like she just served drinks instead of dispensing violence.
I approach while she washes blood from her hands. The sight of crimson swirling down the drain makes my dick pulse with want.
"Impressive display," I say.
