Page 9 of Blade's Princess

"Sophie, this is Cipher. Cipher is our intelligence expert. He handles our security systems and anything tech-related. He’s a genius with computers and can hack into almost anything.” He's also socially awkward as hell, but I don’t say it aloud

"Nice to meet you.” she offers politely.

Cipher nods, eyes darting between us, his tall, commanding frame imposing. “Likewise.” He scratches his jaw then turns and retreats to his tech cave without saying another word, but not before giving me a pointed look that says he has something to share with me when Sophie isn't around.

I lead Sophie back to the kitchen table where Rash has laid out a feast—thick sandwiches with layers of meat and cheese, a bowl of homemade potato salad, sliced apples and oranges, and a steaming bowl of what smells like chicken soup.

"Eat," I tell her, taking the seat beside her rather than across from her. I want to stay close, to keep an eye on the room and anyone who approaches.

She stares at the meal like it’s a Michelin-starred spread. Then, with a hesitant glance at me for permission, she reaches for a sandwich.

"Thank you," she says to Rash, who beams with pride at the simple acknowledgment.

"No problem, miss. Let me know if you need anything else."

I watch as she takes a small bite, closing her eyes and moaning slightly at the simple pleasure. My dick springs to lifeand hardens to steel. Christ, I’d like to elicit moans of pleasure like that from her. With my tongue.

Angel finds us there, her timing perfect as always. Ghost's old lady was shy and socially anxious when she arrived. Now, she's a petite firecracker with dark, purple-streaked hair and a no-nonsense attitude that belies her gentle heart. She has her own history of trauma, which makes her especially attuned to others' pain.

She walks in, takes one look at Sophie's bruised face, and her expression softens. No pity, just understanding.

"Hey there," she greets, pulling out a chair across from Sophie. "Welcome to the Shadow Reapers. I'm Mira, but everyone calls me Angel.”

Sophie swallows her bite of sandwich. "Hi." Her voice is small but not fearful.

Angel doesn't push, doesn't ask questions right away. Instead, she sits in comfortable silence, occasionally making small talk about the food or the clubhouse. I see Sophie relaxing incrementally, her shoulders lowering from their defensive hunch.

This is one of the reasons I like Angel. She knows how to read a room. And how to make someone feel safe without forcing anything.

The peaceful moment is shattered when Saint and Hawk barge in, laughing about some damn dumb thing or other. They stop short when they see us at the table.

"Well, looky here," Saint drawls, his eyes roaming over Sophie with interest. He's not intentionally disrespectful—just being Saint, the jokester whose mouth often moves faster than his brain. But when his gaze pauses on the curve of Sophie’s breast beneath my shirt, and he starts to say, “Looks like VP brought some fresh—” something in me snaps.

Before he can finish whatever thought was about to leave his mouth, I'm on my feet, moving with a speed I haven't needed since combat. I have Saint by the throat, pinned against the kitchen wall. The sheer suddenness of my attack catches him off guard.

"Finish that sentence," I growl, voice deadly quiet. "I fucking dare you."

The room goes silent. In my peripheral vision, I see Sophie frozen in shock, Angel leaning toward her protectively, and Hawk torn between helping his friend and staying the hell out of my way.

Saint just smirks, the asshole. "Fuck, Blade, just messin' around,” he chokes out.

"She's not here for your amusement," I snarl, tightening my grip briefly before letting go. He rubs his throat, but grins widely.

I turn back to Sophie, whose face has gone pale, eyes wide with terror. Fuck. What the fuck was I thinking? I'm a fucking dumbass.

A girl who's lived with violence naturally fears more of it, even when it's not directed at her.

"It's okay," Angel tells her softly, reaching across the table to lay gentle fingers on her wrist. "It's just how they communicate around here. It's a guy thing. How they establish boundaries. No one here would ever lay a hand onyou."

I squat down beside Sophie's chair, bringing myself to her eye level—a position of equality, not dominance. "I'm sorry if I scared you," I tell her, my voice dropping to a gentle rumble. “Angel’s right. I’d never lay a hand on you. But I need all of them to understand." I pause, making sure I have her full attention. "You are under my protection now. That means no one disrespects you. No one touches you. No one even looks at you wrong."

"Why?" she asks, that single word laden with confusion. As if she can't fathom anyone defending her.

"Because you're worth protecting," I answer simply. It's not the full truth—not even close to explaining the possessive need burning through my veins—but I can't tell her all that yet.

Her fear gradually subsides, replaced by something like wonder. As if she's never heard those words before. Never felt worth anything to anyone.

"Keep eating," I say, straightening up. "Eat all you want."

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