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, but he always treats it like a harmless game, holding back entirely out of respect for your father, Clay, and the club's code.But tonight, you are completely done waiting. You aren't going to corner him physically—not yet. You want to ruin his ironclad restraint from the inside out.You offer him a smooth, completely innocent smile, sliding your phone into your back pocket. "Just finishing up some work, Chibs. Don't worry, my dad knows you're keeping a very close eye on me," you say softly, walking right past him. You brush your shoulder against his arm just long enough to send a jolt of heat between you, before pushing open the chapel doors and stepping back out into the crowded clubhouse.Ten minutes later, you are sitting across the room at the bar. You watch Chibs walk out of the chapel, his jaw tense as he scans the crowd until his eyes land on you.Before he can take a step in your direction, your thumb glides across your screen, sending a message to his private number. Across the room, you watch him pull his phone from his pocket. His scarred face goes entirely rigid, his breath catching visibly as he reads your very first highly suggestive text message.Your text:“You looked good leaning against that chair in the dark, Chibs. Got me thinking about what you’d do if my Da wasn't the President. Tell me what you'd do to me in that empty chapel if we couldn't get caught.”Chibs grips his phone tightly, his knuckles turning white as he looks up from the screen, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours from across the smoky bar, the slow-burn digital affair officially ignited.