At least they left it alone, rather than push back. Something about the look in Dalton's eyes, or his posture that made them wary of what they would be getting into should they push the boundary he was setting up. It was a shame they would just go and bother another woman elsewhere, and probably go further than they should in pursing that woman, but Dalton couldn't be help accountable for fixing every unsavoury interaction. He could only do what was in front of him. He watched them retreat and looked down at the young woman, still clinging to him. He waited to remove himself once she did, so that he knew she felt comfortable to be back on her own standing.

“Thanks for that,” Dalton waved a hand, there was no need for thanks for doing the decent thing. Dalton might be a bit of an ass, but he wasn't a slimeball or a predator of women. “I'm Elodie. I definitely owe you a drink and a future favor.” "Dalton," he responded in turn, and then shook his head. "Please, there shouldn't be a need to deal with that kind of shit," It bothered him that this kind of thing not only happened, and happened frequently, but the fact that the woman was apologising and trying to owe him something. "Makes me ashamed to be part of their gender," He grumbled, shaking his head again and then indicating toward the bar and its wide array of coloured bottles. "Drinks are on me, didn't I just say I was getting you one?"

Dalton's night wasn't working out in his favour, and he was pissed about it. Typically, it wasn't his night to fight. He rarely got the chance these days, life seemed to be full of bullshit paperwork and overseeing. He wasn't a trainer, he wasn't a cheerleader or a fucking babysitter, and he refused to be shoe horned in any of those roles. He might have had his differences with his co-owner, but he'd helped to build this place, and he'd be damned if he was going to be hustled out for refusing to bring in ridiculous ideas about death matches and fighting animals for fuck sake. He'd always been a scrapper, a fighter, and in his opinion, the bare knuckle fights to knock out were more than enough. Plenty of men still walked away with life altering injuries, that was enough foolery for Dalton to deal with. There was an element of luck, but boxing came down to technique, fitness and emotion. Too little of one, too much of another, you fucked it.

He sat out of sight, above the ground floor of the club. He didn't usually like to sit up top, it felt pretentious. He usually mingled with the crowds down below, in the heat and sweat of it all, observing both the punters and the participants. This was a business, legal or not, and it still needed to be run as one - if punters got out of line they needed handling, if they weren't happy with the verdicts of the fights, it had to be noted. They didn't fix fights here, at least, not on Dalton's watch, though some people called for it, some people accused. He could hear them now, a swell of angry drunks complaining about the wedge they'd lost on a fight just now. They should have known - the young contender had been far too up himself and was a rookie, despite his virility. His older and larger opponent might have been slow, but he had a fair fitness and had flattened the young lad in a matter of seconds. Dalton had seen it coming a mile off, any seasoned expert worth his salt would have.

Sighing, he got up from the leather comfort and came to stand at the railing, leaning his forearms against the cold of the metal and ignoring the next fight in favour of the crowd. It was rowdy tonight, more so than usual. His gaze flickered to the heaving of the bar - curious as to the mood. More drinks than normal? Perhaps the tenders were faster tonight and getting more alcohol out, serving more people, or were they being a little too healthy on their measures, giving a little too much double in their single shots. He had just turned his watchful gaze away when there was a commotion at the bar. Not unusual, there was always some kind of trouble, it was just whether the trouble was worth recruiting or not. What was unusual, however, was that this was a woman. Oddly enough, not many women were drawn to the ring. It was a boys club, and they didn't host women fights -sexist sure, but Dalton didn't have the time or patience for the drama of it all, something he only just agreed with his co-owner about. They came to watch, usually on the arms of burly fighters or in giggling groups, wanting to see men hit each other in animalistic violence so they could get their rocks off.

"Is any one else going to interrupt my drink?" Fiesty. Opinionated. Intriguing. These type didn't tend to gravitate to Dalton's club and out of interest, he headed down into the pit to get a closer look. If she started causing issues, she'd have to be out on her very perky ass, on the other hand, perhaps it wouldn't be hard to smooth things over to quit the disgruntled glances from the surrounding blokes before they began to make a fuss. After a moment of observation, Dalton smoothly inserted himself in a gap at the bar - people automatically parting for the suited up bossman. "It's on the house," He instructed the closest bartender before they could ring up her shot. "And another, just to show my hospitality." He added, his sharp gaze gave the tender no choice but to abandon their current drink and quickly whip up to fresh shot glasses, pouring out spirit into each - the good stuff, as it was Dalton, and he'd be pissed if they served him the watered down vodka like some stupid customer.