Page 7 of Blade's Princess

Beyond the gate stands a compound of sorts—a collection of what look like industrial buildings. Motorcycles line the front, chrome glinting under security lights. Men in leather vests similar to Blade's mill about, some smoking, others talking in small groups. They all turn to watch as Blade pulls to a stop in front of the main building, cutting the engine.

The sudden silence feels deafening after the constant roar of the ride.

"We're here.” He toes the kickstand down but doesn't move to dismount, allowing me a moment to process my surroundings.

The place should terrify me. These men, with their leather and tattoos and hard expressions, should send me running. But all I feel is a sense of excitement. I'm here with Blade, at his request. Hisdemand.

"You okay?" He twists slightly to look at me over his shoulder.

I nod, though my limbs feel frozen.

"You can let go now," he says, amusement lacing his voice.

Embarrassed, I unwrap my arms and slide awkwardly off the bike, only wincing a little at the sharp pain in my side. Blade dismounts with fluid grace.

Several of the men are staring. Curious, probably. I don’t blame them. I know how I must look—my battered face, my disheveled appearance, Blade's thermal shirt, huge and hanging off me. I resist the urge to hide behind Blade and force myself to stand straight.

I’m overcome by a sudden surge of anxiety. What have I done? I've broken Aunt Margaret's rules, and now I'm standing in what appears to be an outlaw motorcycle club surrounded by very scary-looking men. As soon as Blade's hand settles lightly at the small of my back, guiding me toward the clubhouse entrance, the anxiety disappears.

“What do we have here?” a voice calls from the doorway, deep and commanding, but slightly mocking.

A man steps forward, taller than Blade but leaner, with dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail. One of the patches on his leather vest says President.

"Ghost," Blade acknowledges with a nod. "This is Sophie."

Ghost's eyes move from Blade to me. His gaze scans me intently—assessing, calculating—before moving back to Blade. They lock eyes for several long moments. Something passes between the two men—an entire conversation in a silent stare.

Finally, it’s Ghost who looks away. His stern expression softens slightly and he shrugs in what looks like defeat. "Well, Angel's gonna love her." He steps aside, gesturing us in. "Welcome, Sophie.” Without waiting for my reply, he asks Blade, "Any trouble follow you?"

"Nope," Blade answers. "But we need to plan a run. And we’ll need to bring a cage. We have a dog to retrieve.”

Ghost's brows rise nearly to his hairline, but he just gives a sharp nod.

The simple acknowledgment brings tears to my eyes. They're going to help Max. But...

"Max doesn't need to be caged,” I tell Blade “He's a very good dog." I know I should just be grateful for their help and not make any demands, but Max spends so much time locked up in cages it's inhumane. I have to at least try to advocate on his behalf.

Blade gazes down at me indulgently with a hint of a smile. “I didn’t mean that kind of cage. A cage is what we call a car or a truck. A vehicle that's not a motorcycle."

"Oh," I respond, feeling dumb.

With his hand still on my back, he guides me into the clubhouse where the warmth hits me like a physical force after the cold night air.

The interior is a comfortable, lived-in space with worn leather couches, a pool table, a fully stocked bar along one wall, and doorways leading to other areas. It smells of leather, motor oil, whiskey, and cigarettes. A large reaper mural covers one wall, the club's emblem painted in stark black and silver.

Several men look up as we enter, conversations pausing mid-sentence. I shrink slightly under their collective gazes, instinctively moving closer to Blade.

"Got a new squeeze, VP?" one calls out, a teasing note in his voice. He's got a wild mohawk and sleeve tattoos on both arms.

"Watch your mouth, Hawk," Blade responds, his tone deceptively casual but with an edge that silences the room.

I glance up at Blade, struck by the change in his demeanor. In the alley, and then tonight beside my car, he was gentle and kind. Here, surrounded by his brothers, his shoulders are squared and there's an air of danger and dominance about him, of barely leashed power.

He’s Vice President here, I remind myself. Second in command of this gang of outlaws.

I wonder what these guys think of me. Do I look as out of place as I feel? What does Blade want from me? Questions swirl in my head as exhaustion and adrenaline battle one another in my addled brain.

As if sensing my anxiety beginning to mount again, Blade's hand moves from my back to around my shoulder and he pulls me closer to his side.

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