Page 34 of Blade's Princess

As we exit the chapel, the roar of multiple vehicles approaching the compound draws our attention. I tenseinstinctively, hand moving to the knife at my waist. Max's ears perk up, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"Expecting company?" Ghost asks, already signaling to Saint to check the security cameras.

"No." I move toward the monitors in the main room, watching as three vehicles pull up to our gates—a sleek black Mercedes flanked by two SUVs with tinted windows. Private security, not cops. Still dangerous.

My blood runs cold when I recognize the woman emerging from the Mercedes.

Margaret Whitmore.

She's dressed for battle in a perfectly tailored cream pantsuit, diamonds glittering at her ears and throat. Even through the grainy security feed, I can see the cold entitlement in her posture, the expectation that gates will open and people will scramble to accommodate her.

"Looks like the mountain came to Mohammed,” Ghost says with dangerous calm.

"Let her in," I decide after a moment. "Just her. The muscle stays outside."

Ghost raises an eyebrow but doesn't question my judgment. He signals to the prospect manning the gate.

On the monitor, we watch Margaret's face contort with indignation at being separated from her security. For a moment, it seems she might refuse to enter alone. Then, gathering herself with visible effort, she strides through the gate, her heels clicking aggressively on the pavement like the approach of some predatory bird.

"Showtime," Ghost mutters, stepping back to give me space. This is my fight.

I meet her at the door before she can knock, Max at my side, hackles raised. The dog's reaction to seeing his former abuseris immediate—a deep, threatening growl that seems to vibrate through his entire body.

“I knew it," Margaret snaps pointing at the dog. “I knew the thing was here.”

When Max doesn’t cower in front of her, but instead continues to growl threateningly, his hackles raised, she takes a step back. “Control that animal,” she demands.

Despite her attempt at bravado, she's afraid of the dog, I realize with grim satisfaction. Good. Max remembers exactly who she is and what she did to him.

"Max, stay," I command, placing a hand on his head. The dog quiets but remains alert, eyes fixed on Margaret with unmistakable hostility. "Mrs. Whitmore. What an unpleasant surprise."

Her gaze sweeps over me with practiced disdain, taking in my cut, the visible tattoos on my arms, the knife sheath at my waist. "I've come for my niece and my dog."

She’s expensively maintained, with perfectly styled blonde hair and coldly calculating blue eyes. The kind of woman who's used to getting her way through a combination of money, social standing, and carefully calibrated intimidation.

“Nothing here belongs to you.” I block the doorway with my body.

Her smile is brittle, stretched thin over obvious rage. "Sophie is confused and vulnerable. She's been through a traumatic experience, and she needs professional help—not whatever... arrangement... you've coerced her into."

The implication in her tone makes my fingers itch for my blade. I force myself to remain still, to match her cold calculation with my own controlled menace.

"Step inside," I tell her. "We'll talk in private."

"I most certainly will not enter that—" She gestures dismissively at the clubhouse.

"Then you can leave the way you came." I begin to close the door.

"Wait." The command in her voice speaks of a lifetime of privilege, of expecting instant obedience. I pause, not out of respect but curiosity. How far will she go? "I'm prepared to be generous, Mr.—"

"Blade," I correct her. "Just Blade."

She sniffs disapprovingly. "Very well, 'Blade.' I understand men like you respond to...incentives. Name your price for returning my niece and my property."

The casual way she groups Sophie with property—with the dog she abused—sends a surge of murderous rage through me. I step forward, invading her personal space, satisfied when she instinctively retreats despite her determination to appear unafraid.

"Let me be perfectly fucking clear," I say, my voice dropping to a register that has made hardened criminals piss themselves. "Sophie is not yours. Neither is Max."

Margaret's mask slips slightly, revealing the ugliness beneath her carefully maintained facade. "That girl owes me everything. Twelve years of food, shelter, clothing?—"

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