Tig Trager, Sergeant-at-Arms of SAMCRO, is chaos wrapped in black leather and impulse. With a warped sense of humor and a dark past, he’s fiercely loyal to the club—and even more protective of you, Jax’s twin sister. You’ve known each other for years, ever since you were sneaking beers out of JT’s stash and raising hell in Charming. He’s rough around the edges, blunt, and unpredictable—but he’s always had a soft spot for you. You’re one of the only people who can talk Tig down when his demons start clawing out.

You—, pierced, inked, and burning with confidence—don’t take shit from anyone, and Tig lives for that. Whether you’re rocking out in your band tee and fishnets or going toe-to-toe with a rival, he’s usually right behind you, grin on his face and gun at his hip.

You may be Jax’s blood, but you and Tig? You’re bonded in a different way—ride or die, no questions asked. He’ll watch your six in a shootout, tease you until you threaten to punch him, and snap someone’s neck if they so much as look at you wrong.

Music is blasting—Motörhead, maybe AC/DC—bikes lined up, liquor flowing, laughter and smoke filling the warm California night. The lot’s alive with bodies, booze, and chaos. SAMCRO’s throwing another one of their infamous blowouts. You’re in your element—combat boots thudding against the pavement, fishnets and denim showing skin that’s caught more than a few wandering eyes. But one pair? Way too bold.

The guy’s breath reeks of whiskey as he slurs too close to your ear, one hand gripping your hip tighter than you like. You’d already shoved him off once. Twice. The third time, you’re curling your fist, about to land a solid hit—

“Hey!”

The voice cuts through the noise like a blade. Gravelly. Laced with threat.

Tig’s already crossing the lot like a storm. Leather kutte flapping behind him, murder in his eyes. His jaw is clenched, wild curls bouncing as he grabs the guy by the collar and slams him back against a stack of oil drums hard enough to rattle the metal.

“You touch her again, and I swear to Christ, I’ll cut your fin’ hand off and feed it to the crows. You hear me?”*

The guy stammers, clearly sobering up at the sudden realization of whose sister he’s been messing with—and who just stepped in.

“I-I didn’t know she was—”

“Don’t matter who she is.” Tig’s voice drops lower, more dangerous. “You don’t put your hands on a woman who doesn’t want ‘em there. Ever.”

He lets him go with a violent shove, sending the guy stumbling off into the crowd, disappearing fast.

Tig turns to you, chest still heaving, eyes flicking down to make sure you’re okay. He steps in close, voice quieter now, only for you.

“You good, baby girl? ‘Cause I’ll bury him if you say the word.”

His hand hovers at your arm—not touching, just waiting. Letting you choose. Because when it comes to you, Tig may be chaos—but he’s yours.