Page 26 of Blade's Princess

Ghost nods, his dark eyes calculating as he traces potential entry points. "Guards?"

"Rent-a-cop service. Two men, rotating patrols every forty minutes. They stick to the perimeter." Cipher points to the guard routes he's marked in red. "Window here between 2:15 and 2:25 when the east side is completely clear."

I barely hear them, my attention fixed on Sophie, who sits quietly beside me chewing her lower lip as she studies the mansion layout—the place she called home for twelve years. Her prison. Her personal hell. The urge to burn the entire place to the ground with Margaret inside it pulses through me with each heartbeat.

"Where exactly is Max kept?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

Sophie leans forward, her golden hair falling like a curtain as she points to a section near the back of the house. “If she’s got him confined to a crate, it’ll be in the mudroom off the kitchen." Her finger trembles slightly.

“What about an office or a study, a place where she keeps important documents?” I take her delicate hand in mine and give it a squeeze for support. I know she feels guilty, like her aunt’s cruelty to the creature is somehow her fault.

She points to another area on the blueprint. "Aunt Margaret's office is here. That's where she keeps all her financial records, charity documents, everything." She hesitates. "The file cabinet is probably locked, but the key is taped under her desk drawer."

Ghost catches my eye, reading my thoughts as he always does. "We're going for the dog, Blade. In and out." His tone carries a warning.

"I know." But I don't. The need to hurt this woman—to make her pay for every bruise on Sophie's skin, every meal withheld, every cruel word—burns in my gut like acid. "But if there's evidence of some other wrongdoing…”

"It's a bonus objective," Ghost concedes after a moment. "But the dog is priority one.”

Since the police visit, she's been constantly on edge, flinching at sudden movements, looking toward the gate as if expecting Margaret to show up with reinforcements at any moment. Getting Max will give her peace of mind. And peace of mind for Sophie has become my top fucking goal.

"We move at 0200," I decide, standing up. The others nod in agreement.

Sophie reaches for me as the brothers disperse to prepare. Her touch is light, almost hesitant, her skin soft against mycalloused palm. “Please be careful. Aunt Margaret has friends in high places. The police chief plays golf with her. The mayor attends her Christmas parties."

I bring her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. My thumbs stroke the pulse points on the underside of her wrists. “Don't worry, princess. We’re no strangers to doing risky shit."

Her smile is shaky but genuine. "Max...doesn't like strangers. He might growl or snap. But he’ll remember your scent from your shirt I was wearing."

"I'll keep that in mind." I cup her face, my thumb stroking across her cheekbone where a faint yellow shadow of a bruise still lingers. The sight of it makes my jaw clench so tight my teeth ache. "Stay with Angel until we get back. Don't leave the clubhouse for any reason."

"I won't." She leans into my touch, trusting and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tighten painfully. "Blade? If something goes wrong?—"

"It won't." I cut her off, not willing to entertain the possibility. I seal my promise with a kiss that's too brief for my liking.

I find the brothers loading up in the garage. Ghost has opted for a panel van instead of bikes—less conspicuous, easier to transport a dog. I pull on black tactical pants, a black thermal, and lace my boots tight. Old habits from my military days kicking in as I prepare for the mission.

I check my weapons out of habit: my KA-BAR knife strapped to my ankle, a smaller blade concealed inside my clothing, and a 9mm tucked into my waistband at the small of my back. I don't plan on using any of them. This is a stealth mission in a residential area. But old habits die hard, and the weight of steel against my skin is comforting.

We’re going in without our colors. Without the patches identifying us as Shadow Reapers, we're just shadows in black clothes. Anonymous.

Hawk checks his lock-picking tools, Saint verifies our comms, and Cipher makes final adjustments to his tech. We move with the choreographed precision of men who've done this dance before. Different contexts, same moves.

"If anyone gets pinched,” Ghost gives us a reminder none of us needs, "keep your mouth shut. Club lawyer will be there within the hour."

The drive to Whitmore's mansion is silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I run through the plan in my head, visualizing each step, anticipating potential problems. It's the same mental preparation I used before combat operations, a routine that's kept me alive through situations far more dangerous than this.

But tonight my princess’s happiness hangs in the balance, her trust in me and in my club. I won't fail her.

I’d rather burn down the world than see disappointment in those sea-green eyes.

Cipher directs Saint to park the van two blocks away in the shadow of a large oak tree. From here, we move on foot, keeping to the darkness between streetlights. The night is clear and cold, our breath creating small clouds that dissipate quickly in the autumn air.

The neighborhood is quiet, expensive homes set back from the road behind manicured lawns and ornamental gates. The kind of place where neighbors don't ask questions, where privacy is respected, where abuse can happen behind beautiful facades and no one hears the screams.

Whitmore's mansion rises before us, a sprawling structure of stone and glass that reeks of money and privilege. Floodlightsilluminate artfully arranged topiaries, a circular driveway with a fountain at its center.

This opulent monstrosity is where Sophie was mistreated while her cousins and aunt lived in luxury.

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