Page 31 of Blade's Princess

"But you learn to see past the rough edges," Angel continues. "To recognize the loyalty, the protection, the family they offer. And one day you wake up and realize you wouldn't trade it for anything."

Our conversation shifts to her own dreams. She's passionate about her nonprofit for aged-out foster youth, her eyes lighting up as she describes her plans for transitional housing and education support.

"I'm sorry I got involved with your aunt's foundation," she says suddenly, her expression clouding. "If I'd known what was happening to you..." She shakes her head, looking down at the table.

"Don't," I tell her firmly. "Aunt Margaret has fooled everyone for years. Her public persona is perfect—the widow dedicating her life to charitable causes." I can't keep the bitterness from my voice.

Angel reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. "I sensed something wasn't right that night at the fundraiser. The way she watched you, the way you flinched when she came near." She sighs. "I should have said something to Ghost or Blade."

"No one would have believed you over her,” I assure her. “She has the mayor's private number in her phone. The police chief plays golf at her country club."

Angel nods, understanding. "People see what they want to see. The wealthy philanthropist is a lot more palatable than the abusive guardian."

"I'm good at hiding it, too," I admit quietly. "I learned early on that showing weakness just gave her more ammunition. So I got really good at pretending everything was fine."

"You don't have to pretend here," Angel says, her eyes serious. "Not with me, not with Blade, not with any of the brothers." A slight smile tugs at her lips. "Hell, even Saint is protective of you.”

I laugh, the sound still feeling foreign but becoming more natural. "He just likes Max."

"He likes that you care about Max," she corrects. "These men value loyalty and heart above all else. You have both."

We're interrupted by a commotion from the front of the clubhouse. One of the prospects rushes in, his expression tense. "Cops at the gate again."

My heart plummets, the good mood evaporating instantly. Angel grips my hand tighter. "It's okay. Remember, you're an adult. They can't make you go anywhere."

Blade is beside me in seconds, his expression hard, all traces of the tender lover from this morning gone. The transformation is jarring—eyes cold and calculating, jaw set in stone, shoulders squared. He’s a warrior ready for battle. "Stay here," he commands. "I'll handle it."

"No." The word surprises me as much as him. I've spent my life following orders, keeping my head down, avoiding confrontation. But something has shifted in me these past couple days. I straighten my spine, looking directly into his eyes. "I mean, I'll come with you. I should face them."

He studies me for a long moment, something like pride flickering in his eyes before he nods. "Alright. But you stay by my side."

"They've got a search warrant this time,” the same prospect says. “They’re here for the dog.”

My blood turns to ice. Max. They've come for Max. The thought of him being taken back to that crate, to Aunt Margaret's cruelty, makes my stomach heave.

"Angel," Blade snaps, "take Max to the panic room. Lock the door."

Angel moves immediately, scooping up the dog bed in one arm before grabbing Max's collar and leading him quickly down the hallway. The dog glances back at me, confused by the sudden tension, but follows her willingly.

Brothers materialize from all corners of the clubhouse, forming a protective barrier between the entrance and me. Blade positions me slightly behind him, his body a shield. Theshow of unity brings a lump to my throat—these men, most of whom barely know me, stand ready to defend me.

The doors open, and four officers enter, led by the same detective who visited before—Detective Wilson. His weathered face is grim as he surveys the room, taking in the wall of leather-clad bikers.

He acknowledges Blade with a nod before his eyes find me behind Blade's shoulder. "We have a warrant to search these premises for a German Shepherd reported stolen from the residence of Margaret Whitmore."

Anger flares hot in my chest, burning away fear. "Stolen?" I step out from behind Blade, ignoring his subtle attempt to keep me back. My heart hammers against my ribs, but my voice remains steady. "You mean rescued from abuse and neglect?"

The detective's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes. "We have a legal duty to investigate the claim, Miss Bennett. Mrs. Whitmore has provided registration papers proving ownership."

"Of course she has," I retort. My hands tremble, but I clench them into fists at my sides. "She has paperwork for everything. Did she show you papers documenting how she kept him locked in a crate too small for his size? How she withheld food and water for days as punishment? Or how about documentation of using him to control me?"

Blade's hand settles at the small of my back, a silent show of support that gives me strength to continue.

"Detective Wilson," I say, my voice steadier now, "there is no dog here. But if there were, wouldn't you agree that an animal being systematically abused deserves rescue?"

Wilson's gaze holds mine for a long moment. I can feel sweat beading at my temples, my mouth dry with tension, but I don't look away. Finally, he speaks. "We still need to executethe warrant, Miss Bennett. If there's no dog, as you claim, then there's no issue."

Blade steps forward, VP patch on his cut clearly visible. "Search away, Detective. But you won't find any German Shepherd here."

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