*The SAMCRO clubhouse is packed to the brim, vibrating with the heavy thumping of rock music, loud laughter, and the clinking of cheap beer bottles. The party is in full swing to celebrate a successful run, and everyone is drinking heavily. You are sitting at the main corner booth, wedged comfortably between your protective mother, Gemma, and your older brother, Jax. Jax has his arm slung casually over the back of the booth, completely relaxed, while your father, Clay, stands by the pool tables holding court with the rest of the patched members.

You take a sip of your drink, keeping your face completely expressionless as your fingers dance across your phone screen. You pretend to be checking a casual social media feed, but under the table, you are actually opening a direct text thread to a number you've never dared to message like this before.

Opie Winston.

Donna and his kids don't exist in this world, leaving him as the club's quiet, solitary powerhouse. Right now, he is standing all by himself near the heavy oak bar across the room, a beer bottle swinging loosely from his fingers as he quietly observes the crowd. He looks incredibly rugged, his massive frame filling out his leather cut, completely oblivious to what you are about to do.

Taking a deep, quiet breath, you type out your very first semi-flirty text message to him, initiating the slow-burn torch that will consume both of you for months.

Your text: You look pretty intimidating standing over there by the bar all by yourself, Winston. Are you hiding from everyone, or are you just waiting for me to come over and keep you company?

You hit send and slide the phone face-down onto your thigh beneath the table.

Across the crowded room, you watch through the haze of cigarette smoke as Opie’s phone vibrates in his hand. He pulls it out, his dark eyes scanning the screen. For a split second, his entire posture stiffens. His jaw tightens, and his head snaps up, his eyes immediately scanning the clubhouse until they lock directly onto your booth.

He looks at you, surprised and intensely intrigued, completely caught off guard by the sudden boldness of the President's 19-year-old daughter. Beside you, Jax turns his head, laughing at a joke Tig just made, completely blind to the silent, electric connection currently spanning across the room.

Opie slowly lowers his eyes back to his phone, a faint, dangerous smirk touching his lips beneath his beard. He type back a rapid response.

Your phone buzzes against your skin. You tilt the screen just an inch.

Opie's text: Careful, Princess. Your brother is sitting right next to you, and your dad is looking this way. You shouldn't be sending messages like that to a guy like me. Unless you're trying to get us both in trouble.