Page 21 of Blade's Princess

My jaw clenches as I study the map. One of those locations is less than two miles from our compound. Too close. Too fucking close.

"Girls come in through the storage facility," Cipher continues, tapping a red pin. "Get 'processed'—which means drugged, beaten into submission if necessary, and photographed for their clientele catalog." The disgust in his voice is palpable. "Then they're distributed to the massage parlor, the nightclub's VIP rooms, or shipped further inland."

Around the table, my brothers' faces harden. We're not angels—Shadow Reapers run guns, control protection rackets, and dabble in other activities that would earn us serious prison time. But women and children are off-limits. Always have been, always will be.

"How's he moving them?" Hawk asks, running a hand through his mohawk.

"He's got someone on the inside, has to be.” Saint’s usually jovial face is grim. "Cops, border patrol, maybe both."

My mind drifts briefly to Sophie. I check my watch, calculating how long I've been away from her. Too long. The thought of her just rooms away while we discuss this dark shit creates an uncomfortable friction in my chest.

I don't want this ugliness touching her. She's seen enough darkness.

"Blade." Ghost's voice snaps me back to the present. His knowing look says he's caught me checking the time. "You with us?"

"Yeah." I refocus. This shit with Kovalev needs handling, and as VP, it's my responsibility to be all in. "I say we target the storage facility. Catch them in the act."

Saint scoffs, leaning back in his chair until it creaks. “And if someone in the local department is in Kovalev's pocket?”

I spread my hands on the table. “If we can find out which cops are dirty, we can buy them right out from under that fucker.”

Maybe we can solve our Kovalev problem without bringing a bloody war to our doorstep.

Ghost nods, considering the strategy. “That would be best. Kovalev's got firepower we haven't seen before. Military-grade shit. Armor-piercing rounds, night vision, the works."

"So do we," I counter, thinking of the new shipment of weapons in our secure warehouse.

The debate continues for another thirty minutes, brothers weighing in with ideas, concerns, and intelligence they've gathered from their various sources. We don't reach a final decision—Ghost wants more surveillance before we move—but we establish a rotation schedule for watching the facilities.

My leg bounces under the table, impatience growing with each passing minute. This meeting needs to end so I can get back to Sophie.

"Next order of business," Ghost says, shifting the meeting forward with a look that tells me he's reading my restlessness. "Blade's honored guest."

All eyes turn to me, and I straighten in my chair. I should have known this was coming.

"Not aguest," I correct firmly, my voice dropping to a growl. "My old lady."

A murmur ripples around the table. I'm not known for attachments. In all my years with the Reapers, I've never claimed a woman as mine. Never wanted to. Never found one worth the hassle.

"That was quick," Saint remarks with a knowing smirk. "She's been here, what, a day?" His lips quirk into one of his annoying grins. "Must be some magic puss?—"

I'm half out of my seat before Ghost's sharp "Enough!" stops me. My fingers itch for my knife, but I force them flat on the table instead.

Saint holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes dance with amusement. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Always has. It's why he's good at his job.

"It's a legitimate question," Saint adds, more seriously. "You've never claimed an old lady before. Now suddenly you're bringing in this chick none of us know, and we're supposed to protect her with our lives? Club deserves to know a little about her.

It's a fair point, which is the only reason he's still breathing.

"Tell us about her," Ghost says, bringing the discussion back on track.

I settle back in my chair, my jaw still tight. "Sophie Bennett. Nineteen. Orphaned at seven when her parents died in a car crash. Custody went to her maternal aunt, Margaret Whitmore."

"The charity lady?" Hawk interrupts, looking puzzled. "The one who helped Angel set up the fundraiser for foster kids? The Children's Welfare Foundation chairwoman?"

"Yeah, that Margaret Whitmore." I feel my molars grinding together. "The same bitch who's been beating, starving, and treating Sophie like a goddamn slave for twelve years." My voice drops low, dangerous. "The same bitch who gave Sophie those bruises that are all over her body right now."

The atmosphere in the chapel shifts as I describe what I've learned from Sophie—the attic bedroom without heat, the withheld meals, the endless chores, the calculated cruelty. I tell them about how Sophie told me she sleeps in her car when her aunt kicks her out. I tell them about the dog, Max, who Sophie loves, and how her aunt would lock him in a crate without food or water to punish Sophie.

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