Page 18 of Blade's Runaway Bride
"What would you call it?" I find myself asking. "Your shop."
"Second Bloom," she says without hesitation. "Because everyone deserves a second chance to grow and become something beautiful."
The name hits me harder than it should. Second chances aren't something I've ever believed in, not for myself anyway. Once you're broken, you stay broken. That's been my experience.
"That's... nice," I say inadequately, uncomfortable with the sudden tightness in my chest.
"What about you?" she presses. "Before you say 'no' again, think about it. If you could do anything, be anything, what would it be?"
I open my mouth to repeat that I don't have dreams, but something in her expression stops me. She's offering something here—a kind of genuine interest that has nothing to do with fearor obligation or utility. No one looks at me like that. No one asks what I want beyond my next assignment for the club.
"I don't know," I admit finally. "Never thought about it."
She seems to accept this, nodding slightly. "Maybe you should."
"Why? What's the point?" The words come out harsher than I intended. "Planning for something that might never happen is a waste of time."
"Because dreams aren't just about the destination," she says quietly. "They're about having a direction. A reason to keep going when things get hard."
I look away, uncomfortable with the way her words seem to reach inside me and touch something I've kept buried. I've survived this long without dreams or direction beyond the club's next move. I don't need that shit now.
"We should get back," I say, pushing off from the counter. "You need sleep."
She slides off the barstool, not arguing but not looking convinced either. As we walk back through the main room, the prospect pointedly keeps his eyes on the door, though I can practically feel his eyes following us. Tomorrow, rumors will fly through the clubhouse about Blade and the mystery woman in his clothes. Let them talk. I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks.
Except Reaper. His opinion matters. And he's already suspicious about why I brought Kelly back to the clubhouse, why I put her in my room instead of one of the empty ones. I don't have a good answer for him because I don't have a good answer for myself.
Back in my room, Kelly hesitates by the bed, suddenly looking uncertain. "I can sleep on the floor if you want your bed back."
"Take the bed," I tell her, moving toward the chair I was sitting in before her nightmare woke her. "I don't sleep much anyway."
She frowns slightly. "That can't be comfortable."
I shrug. I've slept in foxholes and on concrete floors. A chair is luxury by comparison.
She sits on the edge of the mattress but makes no move to lie down. Instead, she watches me with those too-perceptive blue eyes.
"Can I ask you something?" she says after a moment.
I should say no. Should tell her to go the fuck to sleep and stop asking questions. Instead, I find myself nodding.
"Have you ever tried to find your parents? Your real ones, I mean."
The question lands like a punch to the gut. Unexpected. Painful. I feel my face harden, the walls slamming back into place.
"No."
"Never? Not even when you were a kid?"
"What part of 'no' wasn't clear?" I snap.
She doesn't flinch at my tone. Doesn't back down. Just keeps looking at me with those steady eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
The simple apology deflates my anger. I run a hand over my face.
"There's nothing to find," I say finally. "My mother left me at a fire station when I was three days old. No note, no identification, nothing. They never found her."
"And your father?"
