Chapter 3 #2
The woman next to her—slightly shorter, clearly turnt—kept pushing a shot in her direction, trying to convince her to loosen up.
Hassan watched for a second too long before catching himself.
He pulled his gaze away, shaking his head slightly. He wasn’t the type to stare. He found that shit creepy.
But still…
Something about her stuck in his mind longer than it should have. “Which one you talking about?” Hassan asked, taking the blunt back from Roman.
“The short one with all that ass.” Roman exhaled, shaking his head in admiration. “Damn, she pressure.”
Hassan smirked. “Go say something to her then.”
He wasn’t the type to chase. Women came to him—that’s just how it worked. But Roman? That nigga was different. If he found a woman attractive, he was making his move, no hesitation.
Roman took another sip of his drink, still watching the two women. “Nah. Her friend next to her look like she’ll shoot a nigga for even saying hello.”
That made Hassan chuckle slightly, taking a pull from his blunt. His eyes drifted back to her.
The one who had caught his attention the moment he saw her. That same mug was still on her face. She looked like she didn’t want to be here at all.
“And when your ass ever been scared to approach a bitch?” Hassan challenged, giving Roman a side-eye.
“Nigga, you know I ain’t no green ass nigga.” Roman scoffed, shaking his head. But then his brows furrowed slightly as he looked harder at the section. “Wait… ain’t that Harper?”
Hassan’s attention snapped back instantly. And sure enough—
There she was.
His cousin, Harper, turning up with the short, lit girl and the woman with the resting bitch face.
Hassan’s jaw clenched slightly.
Harper was damn near naked, wearing a short, brown dress that clung to everything.
She knew better.
Hassan wasn’t the type to cause a scene—he wasn’t about to drag her out of there like some overbearing father—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching.
Closely.
If anybody came at her sideways, he’d handle it before they even knew what hit them.
Harper had always been beautiful, always attracted attention—just like him.
Smooth dark skin, long, thick curls that were now straightened in soft body waves, standing at 5’5 with a figure sculpted from years in the gym.
Hassan had lost count of how many niggas he had to hurt behind her growing up. And now, watching her dance and drink with the woman who had already caught his eye, something about the whole situation had him intrigued.
But he stayed rooted in his section.
Shook the thoughts of the mysterious woman out of his head. He didn’t do love. Didn’t do women who wanted more than sex with no strings attached.
“Yeah,” Hassan muttered, shaking his head. He took another long pull from his blunt before side-eyeing Roman. “And nigga, stop being a creep. You staring and shit.”
Roman laughed, raising his glass. “Nigga, you the one staring the hardest. ”
Hassan ignored him, settling deeper into the couch, letting the club’s energy, the weed, and the alcohol work their magic, easing his mind into a rare state of calm.
But even as the night wore on, his eyes naturally found Harper again. And the two women with her. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. But as he watched them walk out of their section, something about it made him take another slow sip of his drink.
Because for some reason, that woman with the resting bitch face— Was still in his head.
Hassan stayed rooted, his drink in hand, watching like a hawk the moment a man approached Harper.
Roman noticed too.
Neither of them moved—yet—but their eyes locked onto the interaction, reading the body language, waiting.
Harper looked like she was turning the dude down. Whatever he was offering, she wasn’t interested.
But he didn’t like that.
She tried to walk around him, but he reached out, grabbing her arm. The second his fingers closed around her, both Hassan and Roman moved. They didn’t even have to say a word to each other.
But before either of them could reach the man— BAM!
The shortest one of the group swung first, her fist landing dead in his face.
The sound of the hit cracked through the air, and within seconds, blood was pouring from his nose.
Hassan paused for a split second, eyes flicking to the woman.
Damn.
She was strong. But that didn’t deter his focus from the real issue at hand. The nigga who put his hands on Harper. Hassan didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the man roughly by the front of his shirt, lifting him up with ease until they were eye to eye.
The man’s face drained of color instantly.
"I-Ice," he stammered, recognition dawning in his eyes.
Hassan smirked coldly. "Oh, you know my name." His voice was low, lethal. "So you know what’s about to happen, right?"
The man’s entire body trembled.
Behind him, Harper’s soft voice cut through the air. "San, chill."
But it was too late.
Hassan didn’t believe in letting shit slide. That was weakness. And weakness got men killed.
As he turned slightly, his gaze flickered to her—
The woman who had caught his eye earlier. She was watching him. But not with fear. Not with judgment. With something else. Something deeper.
Her expression was distant, yet there was a warmth in her gaze— like she wasn’t just looking at him. She was seeing him. Like she could see the storm in his eyes. Like she understood it. The thought made something shift in his chest, and for a brief second, he felt it.
A crack in the ice. But he ignored it. Pushed it down. He had no heart left for that shit. No feelings to care. His cold gaze snapped back to the man still shaking in his grasp.
"Apologize."
The man’s lips parted, stuttering like his tongue forgot how to work. "Fuck you stuttering for?" Roman said, his tone mocking. "You wasn’t stuttering when you grabbed her arm."
The man swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing. "I-I’m sorry."
The second the words left his mouth, Hassan struck—cutting off his windpipe with one quick, precise hit.
The man collapsed instantly, gasping, clawing at his throat, desperate for air.
Hassan turned to Roman, calm as ever. "Rome, you know what to do."
Roman nodded, already motioning for their men to grab the gasping fool off the floor and haul him out the back. He knew the drill.
By the time Hassan turned back, Harper was glaring at him, arms crossed over her chest.
"Was that really necessary?" she asked, unimpressed.
Hassan’s face didn’t shift. Didn’t move a muscle. Like he hadn’t just stopped a man from breathing with one hit.
"Yeah, it was."
Harper huffed, rolling her eyes, knowing arguing was pointless. "Now come on," Hassan said, already turning toward the exit. "I’m walking you and your girls out."
Because whether she liked it or not—
She was his blood. And no one was touching his family.
The group exited the club in silence, the cool night air settling around them as Hassan led them to Harper’s car.
"Thank you, Harp, for tonight… but it didn’t fix shit."
The woman with the resting mug—spoke for the first time, her voice low, edged with exhaustion.
"Sorry, Sev. Really thought good-ass vibes would do the trick." Harper sighed, pulling her into a hug. "You and Dorian get home safe, okay?"
Sevyn hugged her back before stepping away, glancing once more at Hassan before turning back to Harper.
"You good?" she asked, her tone protective. Hassan smirked, letting out a low chuckle .
He wasn’t offended—not at all. If anything, he respected how protective she was over Harper.
"Yeah, I’m good, sis." Harper reassured. "Let me know when y’all make it home."
Sevyn gave a slow nod before walking toward her car, Dorian trailing beside her.
Hassan’s gaze followed as she slid into the black Maserati.
His nod of approval was subtle—just a small tilt of his chin in respect.
The woman hadn’t said two words to him, yet somehow, she still had his attention.
Harper sighed, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"You gonna kill him?" she asked flatly, though they both already knew the answer.
Hassan smirked, that devilish, ice-cold grin spreading across his face.
"He’s already dead."
Harper rolled her eyes. "You and Roman need a new hobby. He just wanted my number, San. You didn’t have to kill him."
Hassan leaned against the car, unbothered. "That nigga should’ve never put his hands on you. He chose his fate—that’s on him. No nigga puts his hands on you and walks away. Ever."
His voice was sharp, final.
Harper exhaled, shaking her head. "You need help."
The words weren’t meant to be harsh, but they were true. Hassan’s jaw flexed. "I’m good."
She didn’t miss the sharpness of the way he slammed the car door shut, how it held just enough force to let her know she’d hit a nerve. Harper rolled down the window, about to apologize, but Hassan stopped her with a look.
"I know I’m fucked up, Harp." His voice was quieter now, but the edge in his tone made it clear he wasn’t playing. "I’m dealing with my shit. But you and Madea need to chill with that ‘therapy and getting help’ shit."
Harper sighed, nodding slightly. "I apologize for overstepping… we just worry about you, San."
"I’m good, Harp. Stop worrying." They both knew that was a lie.
But Harper also knew there was nothing she could say that would get through to him. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
Hassan wanted to ask about the woman—Sev.
But he didn’t. That wasn’t him. He didn’t ask about women. He didn’t care. At least, that’s what he told himself.
"Get home safe. "
"You too, cousin."
Harper pulled out of the parking lot, disappearing into the night.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Roman.
Roman: Everything handled.
Hassan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. It was already past one in the morning, and he was tired of being out.
He climbed into his car, gripping the wheel as he drove home, letting the night wash away.
But no matter how hard he tried—