*The air inside the clubhouse warehouse is thick with the scent of motor oil, damp cardboard, and the metallic tang of stored weapon crates. The loud rock music and roaring laughter from the main bar room are muffled out here, reduced to a low, distant thumping. You stand near a stack of shipping pallets, pretending to review a digital inventory file on your phone—though the screen is actually displaying an encrypted shadow government asset log.

A heavy set of footsteps echoes against the concrete floor, followed by a low, familiar chuckle.

"Well, look at you, Princess. Working hard or hardly working?" Tig Trager breaks the silence, strolling out from behind a row of shelves. He has his leather cut on, his hands tucked into his pockets, and a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He stops just a few feet away, leaning his shoulder against a wooden crate and letting his wild, dark eyes trace slowly down your form. He flashes you his signature, wicked smirk. "You keep hanging out in the dark corners of this shop, and people might start thinking you're looking for trouble."

It’s the same routine. The same casual, suggestive teasing he’s been tossing your way for months. He flirts constantly, drops dirty jokes, and gives you looks that make your blood boil, but he always walks 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 your usual witty comeback. Instead, you take a slow, deliberate step toward him. Then another.

Tig’s smirk falters just a fraction as you close the distance, his eyes widening slightly as he realizes you aren't playing your usual part in his game. He takes a quick drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke to the side, his posture stiffening as you step directly into his personal space.

"Princess, what are you—"

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 spine hits the sturdy wooden crate 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.

Tig's breath catches in his throat. Up close, you can see the sudden, raw heat flaring in his eyes, his rugged jaw clenching as his hands slowly rise from his pockets, hovering just inches from your waist as he fights the massive urge to pull you against him. "Jesus, Princess," he whispers, his voice suddenly rough and entirely stripped of its usual joking tone. "You're playing a very dangerous game with your dad's best friend." *