4. Blade
Chapter 4
Blade
Every set of eyes in the clubhouse locks onto Sophie like she's a fucking unicorn that wandered into our den of iniquity. Can't blame them. With her golden hair falling limply around her bruised and battered face, those big sea-green eyes wide with wariness, and my thermal hanging off her slender frame, I'm sure the brothers have questions.
But the way some of their gazes linger on her has my grip around her tightening, my thumb unconsciously stroking her delicate bones beneath the oversized shirt.
"You hungry?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle. The clubhouse lighting, while dim, still highlights every mark on her skin. The bruising around her eye is darkening to a deep purple, and finger-shaped contusions circle her throat reminding me again that someone tried to fucking choke her. I grind my molars together attempting to appear calm and unaffected so as not to add to her already tense demeanor.
She nods hesitantly. "Only if it's not too much trouble."
Trouble? Fuck. It's no trouble. I'd move heaven and earth for her and she acts as though feeding her is too much.
The girl's rail thin. Probably hasn't had a proper meal in days, maybe weeks. I guide her through the main room, hyper-aware of the slight tremble of her body against my side.
"Rash," I call to one of our prospects lounging near the pool table. "Food. Now."
The kid jumps to attention, nearly knocking over his beer in his haste. He hurries off to the kitchen, eager to please, as all prospects should be. Good. He's a decent kid. Knows how to follow orders.
"Let me show you around while Rash gets something together.” My lips are close to her ear, and I get a thrill when I see the slight shiver that runs through her.
She follows along with that same wary trust she's shown since I found her in that car—like she doesn't quite trust or believe this is happening. Like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Afraid to hope. I've seen that look before, in war zones, on the faces of civilians who couldn't believe help had finally arrived.
"This is the main room," I explain, gesturing to the space. "We hang out here, have parties sometimes."
Sophie takes it all in, those expressive eyes widening at the reaper mural covering one wall.
"The club symbol?" she asks quietly.
I nod. "Our emblem. The Shadow Reapers MC."
"I saw it on the patch on the back of your vest. What does MC mean?"
Christ, she's innocent. My chest tightens at the reminder of how out of place she is here, how different from the women who usually grace our club, skanks and hoes—except Angel, of course.
"First off, it's called a cut , not a vest. And MC means Motorcycle Club. We're a brotherhood. A family."
She nods like she's filing away the information, her body still pressed close to my side. I can feel every shallow breath she takes as well as the slight hitch of pain when she moves wrong. I suspect she has either bruised or broken ribs. Maybe both.
"Through there are the bedrooms," I continue, pointing to a hallway. "Some of the brothers live here full time. Others have houses nearby and just spend the occasional night here." I don't mention the rooms where our club whores entertain. I'm not keeping it a secret. Not exactly. It's just that some details can wait.
Her gaze follows my gesture, then returns to scan the room again, taking in the brothers. Most are trying to look casual while stealing curious glances at us. Like a bunch of gossipy old hens. I detect too much interest in some of those looks. They won't act on it—not now that I've staked my claim—but it still makes my fist tighten and my jaw clench.
“In there’s the kitchen.” I point through the open doorway to the large, industrial space with steel countertops, a commercial stove, and two refrigerators. Rash, over in the corner, nods and holds up a loaf of bread showing us he's working on fixing sandwiches. "It's always stocked. You're welcome to anything in here, anytime."
Her eyes widen slightly at this. Such a simple thing—access to food—and yet it clearly surprises her. More evidence of the kind of life she's been living.
"There's a small gym through there," I continue, pointing to another doorway. "And out back is a covered patio."
Throughout the tour, she seems to be absorbing everything, trying to take in this new world she's entered. But I notice other things too—the way she flinches at sudden movements, how she positions herself to keep her back to walls, her constant jitters. Signs of someone who's had to stay vigilant.
We're heading back to the kitchen when Cipher emerges from his tech cave—the room filled with computers and surveillance equipment where he works his magic.
"VP," he acknowledges me before his eyes land on Sophie. His gaze is analytical, taking in the bruising, her posture, the way she stands slightly behind me. There's nothing lecherous in his look—Cipher's not wired that way—just intense curiosity.
"Sophie, this is Cipher. Cipher is our intelligence expert. He handles our security systems and anything tech-related. He’s a genius with computers and can hack into almost anything.” He's also socially awkward as hell, but I don’t say it aloud
"Nice to meet you.” she offers politely.
Cipher nods, eyes darting between us, his tall, commanding frame imposing. “Likewise.” He scratches his jaw then turns and retreats to his tech cave without saying another word, but not before giving me a pointed look that says he has something to share with me when Sophie isn't around.
I lead Sophie back to the kitchen table where Rash has laid out a feast—thick sandwiches with layers of meat and cheese, a bowl of homemade potato salad, sliced apples and oranges, and a steaming bowl of what smells like chicken soup.
"Eat," I tell her, taking the seat beside her rather than across from her. I want to stay close, to keep an eye on the room and anyone who approaches.
She stares at the meal like it’s a Michelin-starred spread. Then, with a hesitant glance at me for permission, she reaches for a sandwich.
"Thank you," she says to Rash, who beams with pride at the simple acknowledgment.
"No problem, miss. Let me know if you need anything else."
I watch as she takes a small bite, closing her eyes and moaning slightly at the simple pleasure. My dick springs to life and hardens to steel. Christ, I’d like to elicit moans of pleasure like that from her. With my tongue.
Angel finds us there, her timing perfect as always. Ghost's old lady was shy and socially anxious when she arrived. Now, she's a petite firecracker with dark, purple-streaked hair and a no-nonsense attitude that belies her gentle heart. She has her own history of trauma, which makes her especially attuned to others' pain.
She walks in, takes one look at Sophie's bruised face, and her expression softens. No pity, just understanding.
"Hey there," she greets, pulling out a chair across from Sophie. "Welcome to the Shadow Reapers. I'm Mira, but everyone calls me Angel.”
Sophie swallows her bite of sandwich. "Hi." Her voice is small but not fearful.
Angel doesn't push, doesn't ask questions right away. Instead, she sits in comfortable silence, occasionally making small talk about the food or the clubhouse. I see Sophie relaxing incrementally, her shoulders lowering from their defensive hunch.
This is one of the reasons I like Angel. She knows how to read a room. And how to make someone feel safe without forcing anything.
The peaceful moment is shattered when Saint and Hawk barge in, laughing about some damn dumb thing or other. They stop short when they see us at the table.
"Well, looky here," Saint drawls, his eyes roaming over Sophie with interest. He's not intentionally disrespectful—just being Saint, the jokester whose mouth often moves faster than his brain. But when his gaze pauses on the curve of Sophie’s breast beneath my shirt, and he starts to say, “Looks like VP brought some fresh—” something in me snaps.
Before he can finish whatever thought was about to leave his mouth, I'm on my feet, moving with a speed I haven't needed since combat. I have Saint by the throat, pinned against the kitchen wall. The sheer suddenness of my attack catches him off guard.
"Finish that sentence," I growl, voice deadly quiet. "I fucking dare you."
The room goes silent. In my peripheral vision, I see Sophie frozen in shock, Angel leaning toward her protectively, and Hawk torn between helping his friend and staying the hell out of my way.
Saint just smirks, the asshole. "Fuck, Blade, just messin' around,” he chokes out.
"She's not here for your amusement," I snarl, tightening my grip briefly before letting go. He rubs his throat, but grins widely.
I turn back to Sophie, whose face has gone pale, eyes wide with terror. Fuck. What the fuck was I thinking? I'm a fucking dumbass.
A girl who's lived with violence naturally fears more of it, even when it's not directed at her.
"It's okay," Angel tells her softly, reaching across the table to lay gentle fingers on her wrist. "It's just how they communicate around here. It's a guy thing. How they establish boundaries. No one here would ever lay a hand on you ."
I squat down beside Sophie's chair, bringing myself to her eye level—a position of equality, not dominance. "I'm sorry if I scared you," I tell her, my voice dropping to a gentle rumble. “Angel’s right. I’d never lay a hand on you. But I need all of them to understand." I pause, making sure I have her full attention. "You are under my protection now. That means no one disrespects you. No one touches you. No one even looks at you wrong."
"Why?" she asks, that single word laden with confusion. As if she can't fathom anyone defending her.
"Because you're worth protecting," I answer simply. It's not the full truth—not even close to explaining the possessive need burning through my veins—but I can't tell her all that yet.
Her fear gradually subsides, replaced by something like wonder. As if she's never heard those words before. Never felt worth anything to anyone.
"Keep eating," I say, straightening up. "Eat all you want."
She shakes her head and rests a hand on her stomach. "I'm stuffed."
After a quick look at the food, still mostly uneaten, I nod reluctantly. "Okay, then I guess I'll show you where you can catch some Zs."
As I guide her through the clubhouse toward the back hallway, my brothers watch us. Saint rubs his throat, giving me a shit-eating grin as we pass. Fucker.
My room is upstairs near Ghost and Angel’s room. It's bigger than most, VP privilege, with its own small sitting area and bathroom. I unlock the door and let her enter first, watching to gauge her reaction.
It's not elaborate, but it's comfortable. King-sized bed with dark gray sheets and a black comforter. Heavy wooden dresser. Small desk with my laptop. One corner is taken up by two leather armchairs, a coffee table, and a TV. Weapons are mounted on the wall—my knife collection, some dating back to my military days, some antiques.
"This is your room?" she asks, standing uncertainly in the center, looking small and frail, but I instantly know I like her here in my space.
"Yeah." I close the door behind us. The room feels different with her in it—less like a place I crash and more like somewhere I might want to live .
"It's nice," she offers, hugging herself.
"Bathroom's through there," I tell her, gesturing to the door in the corner. "Shower, clean towels. Help yourself."
She nods, glancing between me and the bed. The unspoken question hangs in the air.
“The bed’s yours,” I say, answering before she can ask. "I'll sleep in the chair."
Relief and something like disappointment flash across her face. Interesting.
"I can't take your bed."
"You can and you will." My tone brooks no argument. "You need rest, princess. Real rest, and not cramped in a freezing car."
Princess . It fits her—there's something regal about the way she carries herself despite everything, a quiet dignity.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks again, the same question from earlier. As if she can't wrap her head around someone helping her without expecting something in return.
I could give her any number of answers. Because it's the right thing to do. Because no one should live in fear. Because seeing her bruised and battered and sleeping in a freezing car made something primal and protective roar to life inside me.
Instead, I step closer, towering over her small frame. Her breath catches, but she doesn't step back. Brave little thing.
"Because you're mine now," I tell her simply. The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me, but it feels right—feels true in a way few things have. "And I take care of what's mine."
Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly. She doesn't understand yet what it means in my world—how claiming someone works in the MC life. In our club, when a brother puts a woman on the back of his bike, it's a statement. When he brings her to the clubhouse, introduces her to his brothers, defends her honor, calls her his—that's a claim being staked. I've never done it before. Not even close. Not once in all my years with the Reapers.
Until her.
"I barely know you," she whispers, but there's no rejection in her voice. Just bewilderment. "I mean... you barely know me. "
"Doesn't matter. I know enough." I reach out, fingers hovering near her bruised cheek without touching, not wanting to cause her pain. I know her heart is kind and gentle. I know she’s been hurt by people who should have protected her. And I know I'm not letting anyone hurt her again.
Something shifts in her expression then, a fragile hope blooming behind her eyes. It makes her even more beautiful, that tiny spark of fragile trust.
"Go on," I tell her, nodding toward the bathroom. "Get cleaned up. I'll grab you a t-shirt and shorts."
She hesitates, then moves toward the bathroom, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. "Blade?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."