Page 23 of Blade's Princess

"Already on it," Ghost confirms. "And I've got prospects doing sweeps for bugs twice daily."

The urgent pounding on the chapel door interrupts our discussion.

Ghost's eyes narrow. "Enter," he calls, tension evident in his posture.

Rash, one of our prospects, bursts in, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool temperature. His eyes find me immediately.

"Blade!" he pants, chest heaving like he sprinted across the compound. "Cops at the gate. They're asking for Sophie."

I'm on my feet before he finishes speaking, chair crashing backward to the floor. Heat roars through my veins, a primal response to threat. "What do they want?"

"Don't know details," Rash says quickly, taking a step back from the fury he must see in my face. "But they've got papers. Look official. Mentioned something about a complaint filed by Margaret Whitmore."

"Fuck," Ghost mutters, standing as well. “That old bitch works fast."

My fists clench so tight my knuckles crack. The taste of metal floods my mouth—I've bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it. "She's not getting her back." It's not a statement; it's a vow carved in stone.

"Calm down," Ghost says evenly, stepping between me and the door. "Sophie's over eighteen. Cops can't force her to go anywhere."

"Unless they've got a warrant for her arrest," Hawk points out. "Margaret could've filed false charges. Theft, assault, something to force Sophie back under her control."

The thought of Sophie in handcuffs, terrified and alone in a police station, sends a surge of fury through me so intense my vision blurs at the edges. My hand automatically drops to the knife strapped to my thigh—a movement so instinctive I don't realize I've done it until I feel the leather of the sheath under my fingers.

"Let's find out what they want," Ghost says, heading for the door. "Blade, keep it together. Last thing we need is you assaulting police officers."

Chapter 10

Sophie

The clubhouse kitchen is one of my new favorite places. It's strange how quickly this space has started to feel like home—the scuffed linoleum floor, the industrial-sized coffeemaker that's almost always brewing, the fridge covered in motorcycle rally magnets and crude inside jokes written on Post-its. The space welcomes me.

I’m arranging sandwiches on a platter for the guys who will be out of church soon when I hear the commotion. First, raised voices, then boots rushing down the hallway, and finally Angel bursting into the kitchen, her face tight with concern.

"Sophie," she says, slightly out of breath, "There are cops at the gate. They're asking for you."

The plate slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor, but I barely notice as turkey sandwiches scatter across the linoleum. Blood rushes in my ears, and for a moment, the kitchen seems to tilt around me.

"Police?" My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. "Why would they?—"

But I know. Of course I know.

Aunt Margaret.

A slideshow of horrors plays through my mind—being dragged back to that house, locked in the attic, punished. She’ll never let me leave the property again. She’ll take away even the small freedoms I had before. The thought of returning makes my skin crawl as if insects are burrowing beneath it.

"What—what do they want?" I manage to ask, gripping the countertop to steady myself. My knuckles turn white from the pressure.

Angel crosses to me, carefully stepping over the fallen food. "We don't know exactly. They said something about a complaint from your aunt." She places a hand on my shoulder, her touch anchoring me as panic threatens to pull me under. "Ghost and the officers are still in church. Rash just went to tell them."

I sink to my knees, gathering ruined sandwiches with trembling hands. A small, pathetic task to focus on while my mind races. Of course Aunt Margaret wouldn't just let me go. She never intended for me to have freedom, to have happiness. Not after spending twelve years ensuring I had neither.

"Hey," Angel says softly, crouching beside me. "Stop that. Leave the food. We need to figure out what to do."

"What can we do?" I ask, hating the quiver in my voice. "They're the police." The authority I've been taught to respect but secretly fear, the people Aunt Margaret charmed at countless social functions, making them laugh as she refilled their champagne glasses.

Angel's expression hardens. "You're nineteen, Sophie. They can't force you to go anywhere you don't want to go." She helps me to my feet, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so petite. "But we need to be smart about this. If your aunt has filed some kind of false charges..."

The thought hadn't occurred to me, and fresh terror washes through me. Would Aunt Margaret go that far? I picture her face when she last struck me—the cold rage in her eyes, the slightcurl of satisfaction on her lips when I cried out in pain. Yes, she would absolutely go that far. She'd do anything to get me back under her control.

---