Page 11 of Blade's Princess

The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and I stand alone in the dark. Alone for the first time since Blade appeared at my car window. The silence feels enormous after the noise of the clubhouse, the rumble of the motorcycle, the constant buzzing of thoughts in my brain. I lean against the door and I try to catch my breath—try to process how dramatically my life has shifted in the span of a few hours.

Tonight, I slept in my freezing car because Aunt Margaret, to punish me, told me I wasn't welcome in the house. Now I'm in the private bathroom of a motorcycle club's vice president, a man who just declared I belong to him. I don’t even know what that means.

With trembling fingers, I reach for the light switch then blink at the sudden brightness. When I see my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I gasp.

My right eye is swollen and deep purple. My lip is split where Aunt Margaret's diamond ring caught me when she backhanded me. There’s a small cut on my brow, finger-shaped bruises circling my throat from where she choked me, and more marks disappearing beneath my borrowed shirt—Blade's thermalthat still smells very faintly of him despite three nights of me wearing it.

I rarely see myself in mirrors anymore. I've learned to avoid it. Looking at myself only brings disappointment and shame.

Now, faced with the full reality of my battered body, tears spring to my eyes. I gingerly lift the thermal, wincing as the movement pulls at what I suspect are broken ribs. More bruises mottle my sides, some fresh and dark, others fading to sickly yellow-green. The baseball bat left its mark three days ago.

Is this why he brought me here? Pity for the pathetic, abused girl? Probably.

I turn away from my reflection and survey the bathroom instead. It's surprisingly clean and well-appointed for what I imagined a biker's private space to look like. Dark gray tiles, a glass-enclosed shower stall, fluffy black towels hanging from a rack. Everything masculine but comfortable.

The shower calls to me. At the mansion, hot water was a luxury. I was allowed five-minute showers twice a week with harsh industrial soap that left my skin dry and itchy. If I took too long, Madison would bang on the door and threaten to tell her mother I was "wasting water like we're made of money."

You're not there right now. You're here. Enjoy it while you can.

Still, habits formed over years don't vanish in an instant. I strip quickly, efficiently, folding my clothes in a neat pile. The thermal I set aside carefully—my unexpected treasure. I step into the shower and hesitantly turn the handle.

Hot water cascades through the shower head and for long minutes, I just stand there, letting the heat seep into muscles perpetually tight from stress, overwork, and abuse. The water pressure massages away aches I've grown so accustomed to I barely notice them anymore. Steam fills the stall, and I breathe it in deeply, savoring the warmth in my lungs.

I examine the bottles on the shelf and hesitate before pouring a small amount of shampoo into my palm. The scent is clean and masculine—cedar and spice.

The simple act of washing my hair becomes transformative. As I rinse, I imagine washing away more than just dirt—I'm washing away years of servitude, of fear, of resignation.

By the time I step out and wrap myself in one of the thick, fluffy, black towels, I feel altered. Not completely. Not permanently. But definitely different.

A soft knock startles me.

"Sophie?" Blade's deep voice comes through the door. "I've got clothes for you."

My heart jumps into my throat. "Just a minute," I call back, clutching the towel tighter.

When I crack the door, he's standing there, a small pile of fabric in his large hands. His eyes stay firmly fixed on my face, though I see the effort it takes when the towel slips slightly and I swear a muscle in his jaw twitches.

"T-shirt and shorts," he says gruffly. "They'll be big, but they're clean. And—" he hesitates, then holds up a black hoodie "—this too, if you're still chilled."

Our fingers brush as I take the clothes, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity coursing through me. "Thank you."

He nods once, a sharp jerk of his head, then turns away, giving me privacy to close the door.

The clothes are indeed massive on my frame. The black t-shirt hangs almost to my knees, the sleeves reach below my elbows, and the athletic shorts, although they have a drawstring that I pull as tight as it will go, still sit low on my hips. But the soft cotton against my clean skin feels like heaven.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Blade is in the leather armchair, scrolling through his phone. He looks upimmediately, and something flashes in his eyes—something heated and possessive that makes my stomach flip.

"Feel better?" he asks, setting his phone aside.

I nod, suddenly shy under his intense gaze. "Much. Thank you for the food and the shower and...for everything."

He gestures for me to sit on the edge of the bed. I perch there, hands folded in my lap, unsure what happens next. The bed is so soft beneath me, a stark contrast to my thin mattress on the attic floor or my freezing car.

Blade rises from the chair and walks to a dresser, opening a drawer to pull out what looks like a small kit. "First aid," he explains. "Those cuts need tending."

He kneels in front of me, opening the kit on the bed beside me.

"This might sting," he warns, gently dabbing antiseptic on my split lip.

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