Page 3 of Blade's Princess

Heat rises to my cheeks as his words sink in. Of course he notices how out of place I am—the ill-fitting dress, my unwashed hair and makeup-free face, the way I scurry around like waitstaff. Even a stranger can see I'm not one of the upper-class. I feel a lump form in my throat.

Voices drift through the kitchen door, growing louder with each word.

"I'm telling you, he came this way. The hot biker. Maybe he's taking a smoke break out back?" It's Brittany's voice.

"God, did you see his arms? I bet he could lift me up against a wall and pound into me like a battering ram." Madison's voice, cruder.

Ice-cold shards of panic flood me. If my cousins find me out here with Blade, their torment will be unbearable. And I'm wearing his shirt! Oh, god, Aunt Margaret will be furious. The thought of whatever punishment she might devise—not for me, but for Max—makes my stomach do a nose-dive like a rollercoaster plunge.

I gasp.

Confusion crosses Blade's face, "Sophie?—"

But I'm already backing away, heart pounding. I can't be caught with him.

Just as the back door opens, I turn and sprint down the alley, away from the dumpster, away from the strays, and away fromhim.

Chapter 2

Blade

The chilly autumn wind cuts through my leather like it's fucking tissue paper, but I barely register the cold. Three nights. Three goddamn nights I've been parked across from this overpriced fortress masquerading as a house, watching shadows move behind curtained windows.

I shift on my Harley, flexing fingers that are nearly numb. What the hell am I doing here? Thirty-two years old, VP of the Shadow Reapers MC, with brothers and a club depending on me, and I'm spending my evenings skulking around outside some mansion like a fucking pussy.

I’ve put men in the ground without blinking, and here I am mooning over a woman I spoke to for all of about five minutes.

A woman who hasn’t left my mind since.

The charity shindig was a big night for Angel, our Prez’s ol’ lady, who’s been working on a nonprofit to help foster youth. Margaret Whitmore took Angel under her wing to show her the ropes of nonprofit management.

Heading up security detail wasn't my preferred way to spend a Friday evening, but when Angel asked, that was that. Family takes care of family.

I never expected to findher—Sophie—looking like a princess.

I take another pull from my flask, whiskey burning a path down my throat as memories of that night flood back. The slight tremble of her hands as she carefully laid out food for those mangy alley strays. How her pale green eyes widened when she saw me. The way she flinched when voices got too loud.

She caught my eye like a sparkling jewel, even in that unflattering dress, with her hair falling in messy waves and no makeup hiding her features. A sharp contrast from the plastic, high-falutin’, snooty chicks swanning around the ballroom, Sophie was like something rare and wild you stumble across in the forest and know instinctively not to touch, not to tame, because it’s perfect the way it is.

I close my eyes, remembering her draped in my thermal, the black fabric swallowing her thin frame, sleeves hanging past her fingertips. For a second—for a fucking second—I felt the world stop turning on its axis.

Then she took off. One minute she's standing there looking up at me like I was some kind of benevolent god instead of the monster I truly am, and the next, she's sprinting down the mouth of the alley and disappearing into the night.

I scanned the ballroom for hours afterward, looking for golden hair and haunted eyes. Nothing. She vanished, taking my thermal with her.

Not that I care about the shirt, but it might give me a reason—an excuse—to track her down. If I can't talk myself out of it, that is.

I rub a hand over my jaw.

Hawk cornered me that night, after the charity ball, he looked at me oddly until I confided in him.

"Damn, that's like the story of Cinderella. Only instead of leaving a glass slipper behind, she took off with your shirt." Helaughed his damn head off until he noticed my scowl and raised his hands in surrender. "Relax, brother. Just making a joke."

Well, Saint overheard and joined in. Then Cipher. By the next morning, the whole clubhouse was buzzing with whispers that I was torn up over a woman.

What can I say? They're not wrong.

I drain the last of my whiskey, tucking the flask inside my cut. The cold seeps deeper as the night progresses. I'll leave here in a minute, but right now I'm too focused on the information playing through my mind, the puzzle pieces of Sophie Bennett's life that Cipher helped me assemble.

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