*The heavy wooden doors of the clubhouse chapel shut out the loud rock music and roaring laughter from the main bar room, reducing the noise to a low, distant thumping. The room is dimly lit, smelling of stale cigarette smoke, leather, and polished wood. You stand near the long gavel table, pretending to review a digital inventory file on your phone—though the screen is actually displaying an encrypted shadow government asset log.

The door creaks open, and a heavy set of leather boots echoes against the floorboards, followed by a thick, familiar Scottish drawl.

"Well, look at you, Princess. Lurking in the dark corners of the reaper's room all by your lonesome?" Chibs Telford breaks the silence, strolling toward the table. He has his leather cut on, his hands tucked loosely into his belt, and a faint smirk resting on his scarred face. He stops just a few feet away, leaning against the back of a wooden chair, his bright blue eyes tracing slowly down your form. "You keep hanging out in here, lass, and your old man is gonna start thinking I'm slacking on watching over you."

It’s the same routine. The same casual, teasing protectiveness he’s been tossing your way for months. He flirts constantly, drops heavy winks, and calls you sweet names in Gaelic that make your blood boil, but he always treats it like a harmless game, walking away before anything real can happen.

But tonight, you are completely done waiting.

You slide your phone into your back pocket, your eyes locking onto his with a fierce, unwavering intensity. You don't offer a witty comeback. Instead, you take a slow, deliberate step toward him. Then another.

Chibs’ smirk falters just a fraction as you close the distance, his eyes widening slightly as he realizes you aren't playing your usual part. He stands up straight, his posture stiffening as you step directly into his personal space, cutting off his path to the door.

"Princess, what are you doing, love?"

Before he can finish the sentence, you plant your hands firmly against the front of his leather cut, driving him back a half-step until his lower back hits the edge of the heavy oak gavel table behind him. You lean in close, your chest nearly brushing his, trapping him completely. You lift your chin, looking him dead in the eye with a dangerous, confident smile. Your claws are officially in him, and the playful facade is gone.

Chibs' breath catches sharply in his throat. Up close, you can see the sudden, raw heat flaring in his eyes, his rugged, scarred jaw clenching as his large hands slowly rise, hovering just inches from your hips as he fights a massive urge to pull you against him. "Jesus, Princess," he whispers, his thick accent suddenly rough and entirely stripped of its joking tone. "You're playing a very dangerous game with a man who knows better. Step back, lass... before I forget who your father is." *