Page 1 of Blade's Princess

Chapter 1

Sophie

I fidget with the frayed hem of my borrowed dress, trying to ignore how the bodice pinches under my arms and digs into my ribs with each breath. Cousin Brittany's hand-me-down is two sizes too small on top and embarrassingly long at the bottom. I've already tripped twice tonight, earning snickers from my cousins.

"Stand up straight, Sophie. You look like a hunchback." Aunt Margaret's sharp whisper cuts through the elegant classical quartet filling the gilded ballroom. Her manicured nails dig into my shoulder, squeezing until I wince. Tomorrow, there will be five perfect crescent marks on my skin.

"Sorry, Aunt Margaret," I murmur, forcing my spine to straighten despite the exhaustion weighing on me like wet cement.

I've been on my feet since 4 AM, scrubbing this very ballroom floor on hands and knees, arranging crystal vases of lilies and roses, and helping the caterers prepare for tonight's Foster Youth Fundraiser. The irony isn't lost on me. Aunt Margaret, chairwoman of the Children's Welfare Foundation, parades in front of the city’s elite as a champion for vulnerablechildren while treating her own orphaned niece like something stuck to her shoe.

"Look at you." Cousin Madison appears at my side, champagne flute in hand though she's only twenty. Unlike mine, her silk gown is brand new, perfectly tailored to her frame, and probably costs thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. "That hand-me-down makes you look like a street urchin."

Brittany joins her, both of them perfect reflections of their mother with their identical blonde bobs and cold blue eyes. "She should be grateful we even let her wear our castoffs. It's not like she deserves anything but rags."

I lower my gaze studying the way the crystal chandeliers throw their reflections on the polished marble floor. Twelve years of living under Aunt Margaret's roof has taught me that responding only makes things worse. My silence is my shield, even if it's paper-thin.

"Sophie!" Aunt Margaret snaps, her smile becoming saccharine when a wealthy donor passes. When he's out of sight, the saccharine turns to ice. "Go instruct the caterers to bring out another tray of canapés from the kitchen. And for heaven's sake, try not to look so miserable. People will think I mistreat you."

I nod and slip away, a small wave of relief flooding through me at the momentary escape. The kitchen is bustling with caterers in crisp white uniforms, and no one pays attention to me as I gather a silver tray loaded with tiny cucumber sandwiches and salmon puffs. My stomach growls, the sound embarrassingly loud. I wasn't allowed breakfast this morning.

The salmon puffs make my mouth water. I could take one—just one—and no one would notice. My fingers hover over the tray, trembling.

No. Last time I was caught eating leftovers from a dinner party, Aunt Margaret locked her German Shepherd, Max, in his crate for two days with no food and minimal water. She knewmistreating Max would hurt me more than anything she could do directly to me. I drop my hand.

As I push through the swinging door back into the ballroom, I overhear Brittany and her friends giggling near the entrance.

"Those security guys are so hot," one girl whispers, twirling a strand of highlighted hair. "In a badass biker kind of way. Especially the big, blonde, muscular one with the tattoos."

"I heard they're from that motorcycle club in town," Brittany says. "The woman who's co-charing tonight's event with Mother hired them because her husband is the president of the club."

"For real? Oh my gawd that lucky bitch! I'd let any one of them take me for a ride," Madison adds, and they dissolve into peals of laughter that sound like breaking glass.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I scan the room, carefully balancing the heavy tray, and when my eyes land on a man whose presence seems to command the entire room, I freeze. His leather vest—decorated with patches—covers a simple black thermal shirt stretched across his shoulders. But it's his face that captures me. Strong jaw dusted with stubble, lips set in a hard line, and eyes—those eyes—sharp, observant, and missing nothing—they steal the breath from my lungs. He stands by the main entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking out of place among the tuxedos and evening gowns.

A warrior in a room full of peacocks.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, those eyes land on mine—and lock.

Time stands still. My hands tremble. Something electric passes between us, a current so strong I can almost hear the sizzle crackle the air.

His expression shifts, the hardness softening for just a moment while his gaze intensifies. I feel like he sees right into my soul.

This single moment stretches into eternity asmy overactive imagination runs wild. I picture the pierced, tattooed giant as my very own leather-clad Prince Charming, sweeping me off my feet into his strong arms and whisking me away from this suffocating gala and judgmental crowd.

I can almost feel the wind whip through my hair as we mount his trusty steed of sleek metal and shiny chrome and ride off into the sunset...

"Oh, my god,” Brittany's voice cuts through my daydream. "Are you actually making eyes at the hot biker? That’s hilarious!”

Heat blooms in my cheeks, and I quickly look away, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Sophie,” Aunt Margaret’s voice adopts a false honeyed sweetness for the benefit of nearby guests. Her flute of champagne catches the light as she gestures with it. "I see you're flirting like the shameless little hussy you are.” Her fingers pinch my upper arm hard. I'll have another bruise tomorrow. "Don't flatter yourself. No man has any interest in a penniless street urchin like you. You're not worth his time."

"I wasn't—" I start to protest, my voice barely audible.

"Go empty the garbage in the kitchen," she cuts me off, her phony smile never wavering for the people around us. "Make yourself useful instead of embarrassing me. Unless, of course, you want Max to have another extended stay in his crate?"

The threat lands like a physical blow. I nod meekly and retreat to the kitchen, tears of frustration stinging the backs of my eyes. The kitchen staff ignores me as I struggle to remove the trash bag from the bin, tie it off, and push open the back door to the alley.

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