Page 19 of Blade's Princess

As I round a corner, I freeze at the sight of a woman carefully closing a door behind her. She's tall and slim, with fiery red hair cascading down her back and a tiny dress that barely covers the essentials. Something about her furtive movements sets off alarm bells in my head. She glances around quickly, not noticing me.

On instinct, I step back, concealing myself in the shadows. The woman adjusts something in her bra—tucking away what looks like a folded piece of paper—before strutting down the hall in the opposite direction.

It's not your business.

But...when she's gone, I cautiously approach the door she exited. A brass nameplate reads "PREZ" in bold lettering. Ghost's office. What was she doing in there? And why was she being so secretive about it?

Not your business, not your business, not your business.

I'm new here, still learning the rules and dynamics. The last thing I want is to be nosy.

Turning down another corridor, I nearly collide with the same redhead. She's pressed against a closed door, her ear literally against the wood, listening intently. I gasp in surprise, and she whirls around, her eyes narrowing when she spots me.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demands, straightening up and flipping her hair over her shoulder. Her defensive tone immediately puts me on edge—she acts like I'm the one doing something wrong.

"I—I was just walking around," I stammer, taking a step back. "Waiting for Angel."

The woman's perfectly painted lips curl into a sneer as she looks me up and down. "And who exactly are you supposed to be? The cleaning lady?"

Heat rises to my cheeks. "I'm Sophie. I'm with?—"

"I know who you are," she cuts me off. "You're the little straggler Blade dragged in. Honey, guys like him don't keep girls like you around for long. Especially ones who look like they got dressed in the dark from the laundry hamper."

I flinch at her words, automatically pulling at the hem of Blade's oversized shirt. Part of me wants to turn and flee, falling back on the instinct to avoid conflict that's been ingrained in me for years. But another part—a newer, braver part—stands her ground.

"I wasn't the one sneaking around offices or eavesdropping on private meetings," I reply, my voice quiet but steadier than I expect.

Her eyes flash dangerously. "Listen, little girl?—"

"Is there a problem here, Cherry?"

We both turn to see Angel standing a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest. Despite her small stature, there's something formidable about her presence. The redhead—Cherry—still looks pissed off but immediately adopts a more casual posture.

"Just explaining how things work around here," Cherry says with false sweetness that doesn't fool either of us.

Angel steps closer, positioning herself slightly in front of me. "Oh, really? And how exactly is that?"

Cherry's smile doesn't reach her eyes. The tension between these two is palpable, and I'm struck by the realization that there's history here—bad blood bubbling beneath the surface of their exchange.

"She doesn't seem to understand boundaries," Cherry sneers. "That certain areas of the clubhouse aren't for everyone."

"You should be careful how you speak to her," Angel counters. "You know better than to disrespect a brother's ol' lady."

I have no idea what Angel means by calling me an ol' lady, but I see Cherry's confidence falter for a second.Justa second—and then she gives a derisive laugh. "Old lady? Please. I don't see a property cut on her back."

"Cut or not, she's his. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it." Angel's voice is calm but carries a warning. "And if I hear you've been disrespecting her again, Ghost will hear about it."

For a moment, Cherry looks like she might argue, but something in Angel's steady gaze makes her think better of it. With a final scathing look at me, she turns and stalks away, her heels clicking aggressively against the concrete floor.

Once she's gone, Angel turns to me with a sympathetic smile. "Sorry about that. Cherry's a piece of work." Angel links her arm through mine, leading me back toward the main part of the clubhouse. "But let me clue you in on rule number one: Don't let the club whores push you around, because they'll walk all over you if you give them an inch."

"Club...whores?" I repeat, testing the word.

"Yep." Angel nods. "The women who hang around hoping to catch a brother's attention. They're not old ladies, not respected the way you and I are." She gives my arm a squeeze. "I think it's time for me to school you on MC Life 101."

She leads me to a small lounge area I hadn't noticed before—a cozy space with a worn leather couch, a coffee table, and a mini-fridge. Angel grabs two sodas, handing me one before settling beside me on the couch.

"First off," she begins, "an old lady is a brother's woman—not just a hookup or a fling, but someone he's committed to, like a wife or serious girlfriend." She turns slightly, showing me the back of the leather vest—the cut—she's wearing. Embroidered across it are the words Property of Ghost. "In the MC world, this announces to everyone that I'm Ghost's. That I'm under his protection." Pride shines in her eyes. "It means I'm off-limits to other men, that I'm respected as his equal partner in life."

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