Blade’s Princess (Shadow Reapers MC #2)

1. Sophie

Chapter 1

Sophie

I fidget with the frayed hem of my borrowed dress, trying to ignore how the bodice pinches under my arms and digs into my ribs with each breath. Cousin Brittany's hand-me-down is two sizes too small on top and embarrassingly long at the bottom. I've already tripped twice tonight, earning snickers from my cousins.

"Stand up straight, Sophie. You look like a hunchback." Aunt Margaret's sharp whisper cuts through the elegant classical quartet filling the gilded ballroom. Her manicured nails dig into my shoulder, squeezing until I wince. Tomorrow, there will be five perfect crescent marks on my skin.

"Sorry, Aunt Margaret," I murmur, forcing my spine to straighten despite the exhaustion weighing on me like wet cement.

I've been on my feet since 4 AM, scrubbing this very ballroom floor on hands and knees, arranging crystal vases of lilies and roses, and helping the caterers prepare for tonight's Foster Youth Fundraiser. The irony isn't lost on me. Aunt Margaret, chairwoman of the Children's Welfare Foundation, parades in front of the city’s elite as a champion for vulnerable children while treating her own orphaned niece like something stuck to her shoe.

"Look at you." Cousin Madison appears at my side, champagne flute in hand though she's only twenty. Unlike mine, her silk gown is brand new, perfectly tailored to her frame, and probably costs thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. "That hand-me-down makes you look like a street urchin."

Brittany joins her, both of them perfect reflections of their mother with their identical blonde bobs and cold blue eyes. "She should be grateful we even let her wear our castoffs. It's not like she deserves anything but rags."

I lower my gaze studying the way the crystal chandeliers throw their reflections on the polished marble floor. Twelve years of living under Aunt Margaret's roof has taught me that responding only makes things worse. My silence is my shield, even if it's paper-thin.

"Sophie!" Aunt Margaret snaps, her smile becoming saccharine when a wealthy donor passes. When he's out of sight, the saccharine turns to ice. "Go instruct the caterers to bring out another tray of canapés from the kitchen. And for heaven's sake, try not to look so miserable. People will think I mistreat you."

I nod and slip away, a small wave of relief flooding through me at the momentary escape. The kitchen is bustling with caterers in crisp white uniforms, and no one pays attention to me as I gather a silver tray loaded with tiny cucumber sandwiches and salmon puffs. My stomach growls, the sound embarrassingly loud. I wasn't allowed breakfast this morning.

The salmon puffs make my mouth water. I could take one—just one—and no one would notice. My fingers hover over the tray, trembling.

No. Last time I was caught eating leftovers from a dinner party, Aunt Margaret locked her German Shepherd, Max, in his crate for two days with no food and minimal water. She knew mistreating Max would hurt me more than anything she could do directly to me. I drop my hand.

As I push through the swinging door back into the ballroom, I overhear Brittany and her friends giggling near the entrance.

"Those security guys are so hot," one girl whispers, twirling a strand of highlighted hair. "In a badass biker kind of way. Especially the big, blonde, muscular one with the tattoos."

"I heard they're from that motorcycle club in town," Brittany says. "The woman who's co-charing tonight's event with Mother hired them because her husband is the president of the club."

"For real? Oh my gawd that lucky bitch! I'd let any one of them take me for a ride," Madison adds, and they dissolve into peals of laughter that sound like breaking glass.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I scan the room, carefully balancing the heavy tray, and when my eyes land on a man whose presence seems to command the entire room, I freeze. His leather vest—decorated with patches—covers a simple black thermal shirt stretched across his shoulders. But it's his face that captures me. Strong jaw dusted with stubble, lips set in a hard line, and eyes—those eyes—sharp, observant, and missing nothing—they steal the breath from my lungs. He stands by the main entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking out of place among the tuxedos and evening gowns.

A warrior in a room full of peacocks.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, those eyes land on mine—and lock.

Time stands still. My hands tremble. Something electric passes between us, a current so strong I can almost hear the sizzle crackle the air.

His expression shifts, the hardness softening for just a moment while his gaze intensifies. I feel like he sees right into my soul.

This single moment stretches into eternity as my overactive imagination runs wild. I picture the pierced, tattooed giant as my very own leather-clad Prince Charming, sweeping me off my feet into his strong arms and whisking me away from this suffocating gala and judgmental crowd.

I can almost feel the wind whip through my hair as we mount his trusty steed of sleek metal and shiny chrome and ride off into the sunset...

"Oh, my god,” Brittany's voice cuts through my daydream. "Are you actually making eyes at the hot biker? That’s hilarious!”

Heat blooms in my cheeks, and I quickly look away, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Sophie,” Aunt Margaret’s voice adopts a false honeyed sweetness for the benefit of nearby guests. Her flute of champagne catches the light as she gestures with it. "I see you're flirting like the shameless little hussy you are.” Her fingers pinch my upper arm hard. I'll have another bruise tomorrow. "Don't flatter yourself. No man has any interest in a penniless street urchin like you. You're not worth his time."

"I wasn't—" I start to protest, my voice barely audible.

"Go empty the garbage in the kitchen," she cuts me off, her phony smile never wavering for the people around us. "Make yourself useful instead of embarrassing me. Unless, of course, you want Max to have another extended stay in his crate?"

The threat lands like a physical blow. I nod meekly and retreat to the kitchen, tears of frustration stinging the backs of my eyes. The kitchen staff ignores me as I struggle to remove the trash bag from the bin, tie it off, and push open the back door to the alley.

I drag the heavy bag to the dumpster, wrestling with it, trying to heave it over the lip. When I finally manage, I pause, savoring these few seconds of solitude. October in Wraithport is chilly and there’s a bite to the evening air, but I find it a welcome relief from the stuffiness inside.

A soft mewling catches my attention. I peer into the shadows and spot several pairs of glowing eyes. Three cats—one orange tabby, one black, and one gray with missing patches of fur—and a dog, what looks like a small terrier mix, huddle near a pile of discarded pallets. My heart aches at their thin, dirty forms, ribs visible even in the dim lighting.

"Hey there little street gang," I whisper, crouching down. "Are you all hungry? Silly question. Of course you are."

Their wary eyes follow my movements. I know that feeling—constantly alert, always expecting the worst. Without hesitation, I hurry back inside. The catering staff is busy serving the main course, and no one notices as I wrap several chicken skewers and pastries in napkins and conceal them in a napkin.

Back in the alley, I kneel on the dirty ground, ignoring what it will do to Brittany's castoff dress. I hate it anyway.

"Here you go," I murmur, carefully laying out the food. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."

The animals approach cautiously as I arrange their impromptu meal. The orange cat comes first, bolder than the others, followed by the terrier.

"There you go," I say, smiling as they begin to eat. "I wish I could take you all home with me." I stroke the terrier's matted fur as it wags its tail between bites. "But I'm not much better off than you guys," I confess to my furry audience. "Not much of a fairytale princess, am I?" I laugh softly at myself.

"They trust you."

The deep voice startles me so badly I lose my balance, falling backward onto the concrete. I look up to find him—the biker from inside—standing a few feet away, his massive frame blocking the alley light, casting his face in shadow.

My heart thunders in my ears as I scramble to my feet, brushing uselessly at the alley dirt and slime now smeared across the dress. Aunt Margaret will be livid.

"I—I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have taken the food," I stammer, praying he won't rat me out to Aunt Margaret.

He steps closer, and the light from the kitchen door catches his face. I can see his eyes now, a deep, rich brown. He moves with a predator's grace, controlled power in every step, but there's nothing threatening in his approach.

The animals, surprisingly, don't flee. The terrier even wags its tail, and the orange cat rubs against his boot.

"What's your name?" His voice is gentler than I expected, a rumbling baritone that seems to vibrate through the air between us. He rolls his shoulders inward and crouches his huge frame slightly, as if he's intentionally trying not to tower over me. Not to intimidate me. It seems so out of place, like this man isn't used to caring about how threatening his presence is.

"Sophie," I finally answer, trying hard to keep my voice steady. "Sophie Bennett."

Something flickers in his eyes, a heat that makes my breath catch. "I'm Blade."

"Blade," I repeat softly, the name fitting. He's seems as intense, as lethal, as the edge of a knife.

A shiver runs through me, the thin fabric of the dress offering little protection against the night chill. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to contain my body heat.

Blade notices immediately.

Without a word, he shrugs off his leather vest, then pulls his thermal henley over his head in one fluid motion, revealing a torso that looks like it's carved from marble and decorated with intricate tattoos.

I know I’m staring wide-eyed. I know my mouth is hanging open. I know it, but I can’t help it.

The sight of him, the expanse of his muscular chest and arms, is so raw and powerful and masculine. It ignites something in me I've never felt before. Flames lick low in my belly. Heat pools between my legs. My thoughts depart from sanity and I imagine what that chiseled body would feel like pressed against me. I blink rapidly, fighting the urge to squeeze my thighs together.

Before I can process what's happening, he steps forward and gently tugs the henley over my head.

The fabric engulfs me. I drown in it, the sleeves hanging well past my fingertips. It smells of leather, soap, and man. And it’s warm from his body . The gesture causes my panties to grow damp.

"Thank you," I whisper, stunned by his unexpected kindness. I can’t remember the last time anyone cared whether I was cold. I’m not used to anyone giving me anything without extracting a price.

He nods, putting his leather vest back on over his now bare chest. His close proximity is doing strange things to me. He's handsome, but in a harsh, dangerous way.

"Why are you out here alone?" he asks, and there's something in his tone—concern, maybe?

"I was taking out the trash." I glance toward the kitchen door but don't mention the punishment I could endure if I don't return soon—or if I'm caught out here with him.

His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. "You don't look like you belong with that crowd in there.”

Heat rises to my cheeks as his words sink in. Of course he notices how out of place I am—the ill-fitting dress, my unwashed hair and makeup-free face, the way I scurry around like waitstaff. Even a stranger can see I'm not one of the upper-class. I feel a lump form in my throat.

Voices drift through the kitchen door, growing louder with each word.

"I'm telling you, he came this way. The hot biker. Maybe he's taking a smoke break out back?" It's Brittany's voice.

"God, did you see his arms? I bet he could lift me up against a wall and pound into me like a battering ram." Madison's voice, cruder.

Ice-cold shards of panic flood me. If my cousins find me out here with Blade, their torment will be unbearable. And I'm wearing his shirt! Oh, god, Aunt Margaret will be furious. The thought of whatever punishment she might devise—not for me, but for Max—makes my stomach do a nose-dive like a rollercoaster plunge.

I gasp.

Confusion crosses Blade's face, "Sophie?—"

But I'm already backing away, heart pounding. I can't be caught with him.

Just as the back door opens, I turn and sprint down the alley, away from the dumpster, away from the strays, and away from him .