Page 27 of Blade's Princess

"Guards are on the west side," Cipher murmurs, checking his tablet. "We've got eight minutes before they circle back. Security cameras on loop... now."

Ghost gives the signal, and we move across the lawn like shadows, years of practice making our movements silent despite our size.

We reach a side door—a service entrance that Sophie said is rarely used, leading directly to the kitchen area. Hawk crouches, his lock picks in his nimble fingers.

In less than fifteen seconds, the lock clicks open and we slip inside, finding ourselves in a dimly lit hallway lined with expensive artwork. My hand twitches toward my knife, imagining Margaret Whitmore's throat beneath the blade.

"Focus," Ghost murmurs, reading my tension.

I nod, forcing the red haze back. The house is silent except for the distant hum of a refrigerator and the soft tick of an antique clock somewhere nearby.

Ghost and I head for the kitchen while Hawk and Saint secure our exit path. Cipher is in the van, monitoring security feeds on his tablet, ready to warn us if anyone wakes up or if the guards change their pattern.

The kitchen is a showcase—all gleaming marble and stainless steel, spotless and perfect. Sophie mentioned spending hours here, on her hands and knees. I run my fingers along the counter, imagining her small hands working frantically to polish it.

I move to the refrigerator, opening it silently. It's packed with gourmet food, expensive wine, fresh produce—a stark contrast to the meager meals Sophie was allowed. The casualcruelty of it hits me like a physical blow. My jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps in my cheek.

A small door off the kitchen leads to the mudroom. Inside, as Sophie described, is a large metal crate. And in that crate, curled into a pitiful ball, is Max.

The German Shepherd lifts his head weakly as we approach, a low growl forming in his throat. He's a shadow of what he should be—ribs clearly visible beneath his dull, patchy coat, eyes sunken and wary. His once-proud frame is diminished, haunches trembling with the effort of standing. The crate is too small for his size, forcing him to hunch uncomfortably. A water bowl is nearly empty and cloudy with slime. Dried feces cakes one corner of the crate—he's been locked in too long to maintain his dignity.

"Jesus," Ghost mutters, disgust evident in his voice. "This is straight-up abuse."

Rage burns through my veins, a white-hot fury that momentarily blinds me. If Margaret Whitmore were in front of me right now, I'd gut her without hesitation or remorse. This—this deliberate cruelty toward a helpless creature—this is the monster who raised Sophie.

I approach slowly, crouching down to the dog's level. "Hey, Max," I say softly, keeping my voice calm despite the fury churning inside me. "Sophie sent me to get you. Remember me? My shirt?"

At Sophie's name, his ears perk up slightly. I extend my hand carefully, letting him sniff me. The dog's nose twitches, and after a moment, the growl subsides to a whimper.

"That's it, good boy." I work the latch on the crate, opening the door slowly. "We're getting you out of here. Taking you to Sophie."

Max stays put, wary. I don't blame him. Trust doesn't come easy after betrayal—a lesson I learned long ago myself.

"Time check?" I ask Ghost without taking my eyes off the dog.

"Four minutes till guards are back at the east corner," he replies, voice low. "Hawk says the house is still quiet, but there’s possible movement in the master bedroom."

I make a decision. "Get Max to the van. I'm going to check the office."

Ghost's expression hardens. "Blade?—"

"Two minutes," I promise. "I'll be right behind you. I need to see what else we can dig up on this bitch.” Hopefully, I’ll find something we can use.

He doesn't like it, but he nods. "Fine. But you need to be in the van in seven minutes."

I watch as Ghost coaxes Max out of the crate with gentle words and slow movements. The dog follows reluctantly, his legs shaky from confinement. Once they're heading for the exit, I move quickly through the kitchen toward Margaret's office.

The hallway is lined with framed photographs—Margaret at charity galas, shaking hands with the mayor, smiling alongside other bigwigs. Her perfect public mask. I resist the urge to smash each one as I pass.

The office is as polished and perfect as the rest of the house—a large desk of dark wood, walls lined with bookshelves, framed certificates, and awards for various charitable contributions. "Humanitarian of the Year," one plaque reads. Jesus fucking Christ. The hypocrisy makes me want to puke.

I head straight for the file cabinet behind the desk, finding it locked, and reach under the desk drawer. The key is exactly where Sophie said it would be. Inside the cabinet are neatly labeled folders, everything in perfect order. I scan quickly, looking for—I don’t know what exactly. Anything with Sophie's name on it for a start.

Near the back, I find a thick folder labeled "Bennett Trust." I pull it out, flipping it open to see documents, bank statements, legal papers with Sophie's parents' names. I don't have time to read through everything, because my phone vibrates—the warning signal from Cipher. I need to move.

I stuff the folder into the back of my waistband, making sure my shirt covers it. As I close the file cabinet, my text alert buzzes again.

"Max secured. Movement on second floor," Ghost's voice comes through my earpiece, terse and urgent. "Lights on. Get out now."

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