3. Sophie
Chapter 3
Sophie
A sharp tapping jerks me from a fitful sleep. My heart hammers against my ribs as I bolt upright, disoriented. Nightmares of Aunt Margaret's rage blur with reality as my eyes struggle to focus in the darkness.
Another rap. Firmer this time.
I blink away sleep and confusion, registering the fogged windows of my car, the cramped position of my limbs, the bone-deep chill that's settled into my body despite the oversized shirt I'm wearing. His shirt.
A figure looms outside my driver's side window, broad-shouldered and intimidating. Fear spikes through me until my eyes adjust to the darkness and I see a face I've been fantasizing about for three days straight.
My teeth chatter as I stare up at him, wondering if I'm dreaming.
"Sophie." My name in his deep guttural growl sounds like both a prayer and a curse. His eyes track over my face, lingering on my eye. Oh, darn. I know it's swollen, I can feel it. It's probably discolored as well. "Open the door."
It's not a question. Not quite a command either, but something in between—a certainty that I will comply. And I do, fingers fumbling with the handle until the door creaks open.
He crouches beside the car, bringing himself to my eye level, and the gesture touches something fragile inside me. I still can't fathom the way this huge man tries to appear less threatening in front of me rather than use his height to intimidate me.
"What are you doing sleeping in a car?" His voice is controlled, but anger simmers beneath the surface. I flinch reflexively, and his expression softens. "It's below freezing."
I tug the sleeves of his thermal over my hands, suddenly self-conscious. The shirt still smells of him a little. "I—I sometimes sleep out here when..." What can I say? My mind is too foggy to come up with a reasonable excuse. My split lip throbs as I speak.
His jaw clenches, eyes hardening as they catalog my face. I know what he sees—black eye, split lip, finger-shaped bruises along my jaw and peeking out from under my collar.
"Who did this to you?" The question lands like a physical weight between us.
I look away, shame burning through me.
"I...um... I'm clumsy." I wince at how stupid I sound. It's an obvious lie.
"Bullshit."
The raw anger in that single word makes me flinch again. He notices and takes a deep breath, visibly reining himself in. One large hand curls into a fist by his thigh, then slowly unclenches.
"Who?" he asks again, gentler this time but no less insistent.
Something about this moment—his presence, his concern, the quiet determination in his eyes—breaks through walls I've been building for years. My lip trembles.
"My aunt," I admit, the words barely audible. "She was angry about..." I swallow hard, wincing at the pain in my throat where her fingers had squeezed. “She was angry.”
His eyes flick to the thermal I'm wearing, that Ive been wearing to bed every night—wrapped around me like a security blanket. Something dangerous flashes across his face, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"You're coming with me." Again, not quite a command but a statement of fact. He stands, extending a hand into the car.
Panic flares. "I can't. I—she'll—" My words stumble over each other as my breathing quickens. "Max. She'll hurt Max."
"Max?"
"Her dog. A German Shepherd." My voice cracks as tears threaten. "She locks him in his crate without food or water or exercise when she's angry with me." A sob catches in my throat. "He's the only comfort I have here and I can't let her hurt him because of me."
Blade studies me for a long moment, those intense eyes seeming to read every thought flashing through my mind. "I'll take care of the dog. But first things first—let’s go.”
I hesitate, torn. Aunt Margaret kicked me out of the house for the night, but she'll be livid if I'm not there in the morning doing my chores. She might take the baseball bat to me again, and I'll survive it, but what if she hits Max instead? She's done it before. I still remember Madison and Brittany laughing while I begged, pleaded, and cried for her to stop. I couldn't bear it if?—
"But Max..."
"I'll come back for him," Blade says, reading my hesitation. "I promise."
"You promise?" I hate the childish quiver in my voice. “For real?”
“For real. I don't make promises I can't keep."
Something about the steel in his voice convinces me. I place my trembling hand in his massive one, relishing the warmth of his skin against my frozen fingers. He helps me from the car, and I move slowly cradling my side. Blade steadies me when my stiff legs threaten to buckle.
Pain shoots through my ribs as I stand—a reminder of the brutal blow that sent me sprawling across the kitchen floor. I try to hide my grimace, but Blade's sharp eyes miss nothing. His expression darkens, but he waits silently for me to find my balance.
Standing, the height difference between us is startling. I'm five-foot-four on a good day, and he towers over me, all sculpted muscle and power.
“Do you have any belongings to bring?” He nods toward my car.
I just shake my head, not trusting my voice. All of my meager belongings are in the attic room I've called home for twelve years. I don’t care about any of it.
"Let's go." He gestures toward the street, where a motorcycle is parked, sleek and powerful, the chrome glinting in the moonlight.
The rational part of my brain screams warnings. I’m leaving with a biker . I know nothing about him. I could be choosing a situation that’s worse than the one I'm leaving. But some deeper instinct silences those fears.
"Why are you helping me?"
He stares down at me, expression unreadable in the darkness. "Because you looked at strays like they were worth saving."
His answer is so simple and unexpected that for a moment I'm speechless.
Then, I wonder if that's what I am to him. A stray—wounded and wary and in need of shelter. I don’t like the way that thought makes me feel.
Before I can respond, he's guiding me toward his bike, one large hand at the small of my back, barely touching me but somehow anchoring me to the moment. This is really happening. I'm leaving. With him.
"Ever been on a motorcycle before?"
I shake my head.
"You'll need to hold onto me. Tight." He swings his leg over the bike with practiced ease, the machine looking somehow smaller with his frame astride it. "When I lean, lean with me. Let your body cling to mine."
The innuendo isn't lost on me, and I'm grateful the darkness hides my blush as I clamber onto the seat behind him super awkwardly because my ribs hurt so bad it's hard to breathe, much less move.
"Arms around me," he instructs, starting the engine with a roar that seems to vibrate through my entire body.
I hesitantly wrap my arms around his solid torso, fingertips barely grazing the leather he’s wearing. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel the heat radiating from him. It's the closest I've been to another human being in... I can't even remember, but the intimacy makes my breath catch.
"Tighter," he growls over his shoulder. "Like you mean it."
Drawing a shaky breath, I press closer, arms encircling him fully, my chest against his back. My heart races. I'm smooshed up against a man I barely know—a large, fierce, menacing man—hugging him from behind.
We pull away from the curb, the vibration of the engine between my legs creating interesting and not at all unpleasant sensations. The wind is frigid against my exposed skin, but I barely notice the cold. The city blurs around us as we weave through quiet streets, heading toward the outskirts of town. The scent of night air, engine exhaust, and Blade's leather fills my nostrils. Each mile brings a slight upturn to my lips as my body gradually relaxes into the rhythm of the ride.
For the first time in years, I feel…good. Free.
I have no idea where we're going, but as manicured neighborhoods give way to industrial zones and then to the rougher edges of town, I feel a growing certainty that wherever Blade is taking me, it has to be better than the endless cycle of chores, punishment, and fear I'm leaving behind.
We turn onto a gravel road marked only by a weathered sign I can't read in the darkness. The bike slows as we approach a gate with two men standing guard, shotguns visible even in the dim light. My arms tighten reflexively around Blade's waist.
The guards straighten as we approach, recognition evident on their faces. One of them quickly opens the gate, nodding respectfully as Blade guides the motorcycle through.
"VP," the guard acknowledges as we pass.
I'm not sure why, but when he notices me on the back of the motorcycle, he does a double take and his eyes widen so much it looks like they might fall right out of his head.
Beyond the gate stands a compound of sorts—a collection of what look like industrial buildings. Motorcycles line the front, chrome glinting under security lights. Men in leather vests similar to Blade's mill about, some smoking, others talking in small groups. They all turn to watch as Blade pulls to a stop in front of the main building, cutting the engine.
The sudden silence feels deafening after the constant roar of the ride.
"We're here.” He toes the kickstand down but doesn't move to dismount, allowing me a moment to process my surroundings.
The place should terrify me. These men, with their leather and tattoos and hard expressions, should send me running. But all I feel is a sense of excitement. I'm here with Blade, at his request. His demand .
"You okay?" He twists slightly to look at me over his shoulder.
I nod, though my limbs feel frozen.
"You can let go now," he says, amusement lacing his voice.
Embarrassed, I unwrap my arms and slide awkwardly off the bike, only wincing a little at the sharp pain in my side. Blade dismounts with fluid grace.
Several of the men are staring. Curious, probably. I don’t blame them. I know how I must look—my battered face, my disheveled appearance, Blade's thermal shirt, huge and hanging off me. I resist the urge to hide behind Blade and force myself to stand straight.
I’m overcome by a sudden surge of anxiety. What have I done? I've broken Aunt Margaret's rules, and now I'm standing in what appears to be an outlaw motorcycle club surrounded by very scary-looking men. As soon as Blade's hand settles lightly at the small of my back, guiding me toward the clubhouse entrance, the anxiety disappears.
“What do we have here?” a voice calls from the doorway, deep and commanding, but slightly mocking.
A man steps forward, taller than Blade but leaner, with dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail. One of the patches on his leather vest says President.
"Ghost," Blade acknowledges with a nod. "This is Sophie."
Ghost's eyes move from Blade to me. His gaze scans me intently—assessing, calculating—before moving back to Blade. They lock eyes for several long moments. Something passes between the two men—an entire conversation in a silent stare.
Finally, it’s Ghost who looks away. His stern expression softens slightly and he shrugs in what looks like defeat. "Well, Angel's gonna love her." He steps aside, gesturing us in. "Welcome, Sophie.” Without waiting for my reply, he asks Blade, "Any trouble follow you?"
"Nope," Blade answers. "But we need to plan a run. And we’ll need to bring a cage. We have a dog to retrieve.”
Ghost's brows rise nearly to his hairline, but he just gives a sharp nod.
The simple acknowledgment brings tears to my eyes. They're going to help Max. But...
"Max doesn't need to be caged,” I tell Blade “He's a very good dog." I know I should just be grateful for their help and not make any demands, but Max spends so much time locked up in cages it's inhumane. I have to at least try to advocate on his behalf.
Blade gazes down at me indulgently with a hint of a smile. “I didn’t mean that kind of cage. A cage is what we call a car or a truck. A vehicle that's not a motorcycle."
"Oh," I respond, feeling dumb.
With his hand still on my back, he guides me into the clubhouse where the warmth hits me like a physical force after the cold night air.
The interior is a comfortable, lived-in space with worn leather couches, a pool table, a fully stocked bar along one wall, and doorways leading to other areas. It smells of leather, motor oil, whiskey, and cigarettes. A large reaper mural covers one wall, the club's emblem painted in stark black and silver.
Several men look up as we enter, conversations pausing mid-sentence. I shrink slightly under their collective gazes, instinctively moving closer to Blade.
"Got a new squeeze, VP?" one calls out, a teasing note in his voice. He's got a wild mohawk and sleeve tattoos on both arms.
"Watch your mouth, Hawk," Blade responds, his tone deceptively casual but with an edge that silences the room.
I glance up at Blade, struck by the change in his demeanor. In the alley, and then tonight beside my car, he was gentle and kind. Here, surrounded by his brothers, his shoulders are squared and there's an air of danger and dominance about him, of barely leashed power.
He’s Vice President here , I remind myself. Second in command of this gang of outlaws.
I wonder what these guys think of me. Do I look as out of place as I feel? What does Blade want from me? Questions swirl in my head as exhaustion and adrenaline battle one another in my addled brain.
As if sensing my anxiety beginning to mount again, Blade's hand moves from my back to around my shoulder and he pulls me closer to his side.
He leans down and with his lips next to my ear whispers, “You're safe here. No one will hurt you."
And then louder, so the entire room can hear, he says, “No one better lay a fucking hand on you. No one but me."