2. Blade
Chapter 2
Blade
The chilly autumn wind cuts through my leather like it's fucking tissue paper, but I barely register the cold. Three nights. Three goddamn nights I've been parked across from this overpriced fortress masquerading as a house, watching shadows move behind curtained windows.
I shift on my Harley, flexing fingers that are nearly numb. What the hell am I doing here? Thirty-two years old, VP of the Shadow Reapers MC, with brothers and a club depending on me, and I'm spending my evenings skulking around outside some mansion like a fucking pussy.
I’ve put men in the ground without blinking, and here I am mooning over a woman I spoke to for all of about five minutes.
A woman who hasn’t left my mind since.
The charity shindig was a big night for Angel, our Prez’s ol’ lady, who’s been working on a nonprofit to help foster youth. Margaret Whitmore took Angel under her wing to show her the ropes of nonprofit management.
Heading up security detail wasn't my preferred way to spend a Friday evening, but when Angel asked, that was that. Family takes care of family.
I never expected to find her— Sophie—looking like a princess.
I take another pull from my flask, whiskey burning a path down my throat as memories of that night flood back. The slight tremble of her hands as she carefully laid out food for those mangy alley strays. How her pale green eyes widened when she saw me. The way she flinched when voices got too loud.
She caught my eye like a sparkling jewel, even in that unflattering dress, with her hair falling in messy waves and no makeup hiding her features. A sharp contrast from the plastic, high-falutin’, snooty chicks swanning around the ballroom, Sophie was like something rare and wild you stumble across in the forest and know instinctively not to touch, not to tame, because it’s perfect the way it is.
I close my eyes, remembering her draped in my thermal, the black fabric swallowing her thin frame, sleeves hanging past her fingertips. For a second—for a fucking second—I felt the world stop turning on its axis.
Then she took off. One minute she's standing there looking up at me like I was some kind of benevolent god instead of the monster I truly am, and the next, she's sprinting down the mouth of the alley and disappearing into the night.
I scanned the ballroom for hours afterward, looking for golden hair and haunted eyes. Nothing. She vanished, taking my thermal with her.
Not that I care about the shirt, but it might give me a reason—an excuse—to track her down. If I can't talk myself out of it, that is.
I rub a hand over my jaw.
Hawk cornered me that night, after the charity ball, he looked at me oddly until I confided in him.
"Damn, that's like the story of Cinderella. Only instead of leaving a glass slipper behind, she took off with your shirt." He laughed his damn head off until he noticed my scowl and raised his hands in surrender. "Relax, brother. Just making a joke."
Well, Saint overheard and joined in. Then Cipher. By the next morning, the whole clubhouse was buzzing with whispers that I was torn up over a woman.
What can I say? They're not wrong.
I drain the last of my whiskey, tucking the flask inside my cut. The cold seeps deeper as the night progresses. I'll leave here in a minute, but right now I'm too focused on the information playing through my mind, the puzzle pieces of Sophie Bennett's life that Cipher helped me assemble.
Sophie Bennett. Parents killed in a car crash when she was seven. Custody granted to maternal aunt, Margaret Whitmore, widow of banking executive Robert Whitmore, with two daughters roughly Sophie's age. On paper, the perfect solution. In reality? I'm not so sure. I've seen enough abuse to recognize possible red flags.
Dropped from regular school enrollment at twelve, listed as "homeschooled." No current employment. No credit cards, no bank accounts, no cell phone plan in her name. No social media except a neglected Instagram account with only pictures of animals.
Everything about it sets off alarms to me. Not to mention the way she moved at that fundraiser—head down, shoulders hunched, like she was trying to disappear. The nervous glances toward her aunt. The ill-fitting dress when her cousins were dripping in designer labels, jewelry, and intricate hairstyles. I also spotted the raw, chapped skin on her hands when she fed the strays.
And the fear when her cousins approached the alley. If I’m not mistaken, there was pure fucking terror in her eyes.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Ghost.
"Yeah," I answer, my eyes still fixed on the dark mansion that gives me the heebie-jeebies. Something's rotten in that place—I can feel it in my bones. I have no concrete proof, just instinct. The same instinct that kept me alive through two tours in Afghanistan.
"Where are you, brother?" Ghost's voice is more amused than irritated.
"Taking care of something."
"Something or some one ?" A knowing edge sharpens his words. We've been riding together too long for him not to know something's up. "This is the third night in a row you've been away from the clubhouse."
I sigh. "Just got a thing I gotta do is all.”
"This wouldn't have anything to do with that Cinderella chick?"
"You got a reason for callin, Prez?" I deflect, not ready to explain my obsession to anyone, not even my closest friend.
Ghost's laugh rumbles through the phone. "Nah. Just checking you're still breathing." He pauses. "Listen, I asked Angel. She thinks there's something off about the Whitmore woman. Angel's suspicious of how she talks about her niece."
I grunt in reply, my grip tightening on the phone. Having grown up in foster care being tossed from one family to another, Angel has good instincts about people.
"You need anything, call."
"Always." It's our long-standing promise to each other and to our club.
"Good. Now stop stalking like a creeper and get home. "
I hang up without responding. He might rib me about it, but the fucker did the same thing with his ol’ lady. He’s right, though. It’s time to get my ass out of this crusty, well-to-do neighborhood before someone calls the cops.
The temperature's dropping fast now, frost forming on the manicured lawn. Most of the mansion is dark, only security lights illuminating the grounds and a single light somewhere deep inside, probably the kitchen or a servant's quarter.
I'm about to call it quits when something near the edge of the circular driveway catches my eye. There's a car there, tucked half under the shadows of oak trees that line the property. An old Honda Civic, maybe early 2000s, faded blue and rusting around the wheel wells. It looks wildly out of place considering the brand new BMW SUV and Mercedes sedan parked closer to the house.
And the windows are fogged.
Is someone inside?
My gut clenches as I kick the stand down on my bike and slip into the shadows, moving across the street with the stealth that's kept me alive through countless dangerous situations. The weight of my KA-BAR knife pressed against my ankle is reassuring as I approach.
As I get closer, I can see the car better—a real piece of shit, held together with zip ties and Bondo. Looks like rust is eating away the undercarriage. A crack spiderwebs across the windshield, and the passenger door is a different color than the rest of the body. The junker doesn't belong in this neighborhood any more than I do.
I approach the driver's side window from the blind spot, keeping my footfalls silent on the frost-covered grass, staying low and in the shadows.
When I'm close enough to peer inside, what I find stops me cold.
Sophie is curled up in the reclined driver's seat, shivering violently even in sleep. Her face is turned toward me, illuminated by the distant security lights. Small puffs of visible steam slide from her lips with every exhale.
She's sleeping in her car? In fucking freezing temperatures?
A dark bruise circles her right eye, the skin swollen and discolored. Her lip is split at the corner.
Red floods my vision as a wave of rage overtakes me.
Someone put their hands on her. Hurt her.