5. Sophie
Chapter 5
Sophie
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me, and I stand alone in the dark. Alone for the first time since Blade appeared at my car window. The silence feels enormous after the noise of the clubhouse, the rumble of the motorcycle, the constant buzzing of thoughts in my brain. I lean against the door and I try to catch my breath—try to process how dramatically my life has shifted in the span of a few hours.
Tonight, I slept in my freezing car because Aunt Margaret, to punish me, told me I wasn't welcome in the house. Now I'm in the private bathroom of a motorcycle club's vice president, a man who just declared I belong to him. I don’t even know what that means.
With trembling fingers, I reach for the light switch then blink at the sudden brightness. When I see my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I gasp.
My right eye is swollen and deep purple. My lip is split where Aunt Margaret's diamond ring caught me when she backhanded me. There’s a small cut on my brow, finger-shaped bruises circling my throat from where she choked me, and more marks disappearing beneath my borrowed shirt—Blade's thermal that still smells very faintly of him despite three nights of me wearing it.
I rarely see myself in mirrors anymore. I've learned to avoid it. Looking at myself only brings disappointment and shame.
Now, faced with the full reality of my battered body, tears spring to my eyes. I gingerly lift the thermal, wincing as the movement pulls at what I suspect are broken ribs. More bruises mottle my sides, some fresh and dark, others fading to sickly yellow-green. The baseball bat left its mark three days ago.
Is this why he brought me here? Pity for the pathetic, abused girl? Probably.
I turn away from my reflection and survey the bathroom instead. It's surprisingly clean and well-appointed for what I imagined a biker's private space to look like. Dark gray tiles, a glass-enclosed shower stall, fluffy black towels hanging from a rack. Everything masculine but comfortable.
The shower calls to me. At the mansion, hot water was a luxury. I was allowed five-minute showers twice a week with harsh industrial soap that left my skin dry and itchy. If I took too long, Madison would bang on the door and threaten to tell her mother I was "wasting water like we're made of money."
You're not there right now. You're here. Enjoy it while you can.
Still, habits formed over years don't vanish in an instant. I strip quickly, efficiently, folding my clothes in a neat pile. The thermal I set aside carefully—my unexpected treasure. I step into the shower and hesitantly turn the handle.
Hot water cascades through the shower head and for long minutes, I just stand there, letting the heat seep into muscles perpetually tight from stress, overwork, and abuse. The water pressure massages away aches I've grown so accustomed to I barely notice them anymore. Steam fills the stall, and I breathe it in deeply, savoring the warmth in my lungs.
I examine the bottles on the shelf and hesitate before pouring a small amount of shampoo into my palm. The scent is clean and masculine—cedar and spice.
The simple act of washing my hair becomes transformative. As I rinse, I imagine washing away more than just dirt—I'm washing away years of servitude, of fear, of resignation.
By the time I step out and wrap myself in one of the thick, fluffy, black towels, I feel altered. Not completely. Not permanently. But definitely different.
A soft knock startles me.
"Sophie?" Blade's deep voice comes through the door. "I've got clothes for you."
My heart jumps into my throat. "Just a minute," I call back, clutching the towel tighter.
When I crack the door, he's standing there, a small pile of fabric in his large hands. His eyes stay firmly fixed on my face, though I see the effort it takes when the towel slips slightly and I swear a muscle in his jaw twitches.
"T-shirt and shorts," he says gruffly. "They'll be big, but they're clean. And—" he hesitates, then holds up a black hoodie "—this too, if you're still chilled."
Our fingers brush as I take the clothes, and the contact sends a jolt of electricity coursing through me. "Thank you."
He nods once, a sharp jerk of his head, then turns away, giving me privacy to close the door.
The clothes are indeed massive on my frame. The black t-shirt hangs almost to my knees, the sleeves reach below my elbows, and the athletic shorts, although they have a drawstring that I pull as tight as it will go, still sit low on my hips. But the soft cotton against my clean skin feels like heaven.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Blade is in the leather armchair, scrolling through his phone. He looks up immediately, and something flashes in his eyes—something heated and possessive that makes my stomach flip.
"Feel better?" he asks, setting his phone aside.
I nod, suddenly shy under his intense gaze. "Much. Thank you for the food and the shower and...for everything."
He gestures for me to sit on the edge of the bed. I perch there, hands folded in my lap, unsure what happens next. The bed is so soft beneath me, a stark contrast to my thin mattress on the attic floor or my freezing car.
Blade rises from the chair and walks to a dresser, opening a drawer to pull out what looks like a small kit. "First aid," he explains. "Those cuts need tending."
He kneels in front of me, opening the kit on the bed beside me.
"This might sting," he warns, gently dabbing antiseptic on my split lip.
I stay still. His touch is surprisingly gentle for hands so large and rough. I notice a criss-cross of scars running over his knuckles.
"How often do you endure beatings like this?" he asks, voice carefully neutral as he works.
I look down at my lap, shame washing over me. Why am I embarrassed? I'm the victim, not the perpetrator. Yet years of being told I deserved every punishment have left their mark as surely as Aunt Margaret's hands.
"Not... not every day," I finally answer. "Usually just when I mess up or don't finish my chores on time."
His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. “How exactly did you mess up ?”
“Um…she found smudged fingerprints on the dining room windows I'd cleaned..." I swallow hard. "My cousins do that sometimes. Leave fingerprints or spills right after I've cleaned. They think it's funny to watch me get punished."
His nostrils flare, but his hands remain gentle as he cleans a small cut near my eyebrow. When he finishes, he very gently lifts the corner of the shirt I’m wearing to view the bruises underneath.
“Fuck,” he emits on a growled exhale. “What about this? How did you mess up to earn this?”
“That’s from a couple days ago. She was angry that I disappeared from the fundraiser," I admit quietly. "And later that night when she saw me with your shirt..." I trail off, remembering her fury when she spotted Blade's thermal poking out from under my pillow where I tried to hide it.
"The thermal was the last straw?"
I nod. "She said I was—" the words stick in my throat, still painful to repeat "—an ungrateful hussy who'd flirt with any man and steal anything not nailed down. Then she got out the baseball bat.”
"Jesus, Sophie," Blade breathes.
I nod. "She threw me out of the house tonight, saying I didn’t deserve to sleep under her roof. That's why I was sleeping in my car."
"She do that often? Make you sleep outside?" His voice is dangerously calm, a stark contrast to the rage building in his eyes.
I swallow hard before nodding. "She'll expect me to be there in the morning, though. In time to start my daily chores. I...I don't know what will happen if I don't show."
Blade's expression darkens to something truly frightening. "Are there other ways she punishes you? Besides hitting."
I look away, shame burning through me again. "Sometimes it's no meals for a day or two. Sometimes extra chores."
His gruff voice grows somehow gentler as he asks, "Is there a reason you don't leave, or report her to the police? How old are you?”
I take a shaky breath. "Sometimes..." My voice falters. "She locks Max in his crate. Without food. Without water." The memory makes my chest ache worse than my injuries. "Because she knows that hurts me more than anything she could do to me directly." Tears well up again, spilling over before I can stop them. "That's why I’ve never left. Because I'm afraid she'll use her baseball bat on him and he's such a sweet dog. He doesn't deserve to suffer because of me."
Blade's hand comes up to cradle my cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear. The gesture is so tender it nearly breaks me.
"I'll get him out," he says with absolute certainty.
"I believe you," I whisper, and I realize with surprise that I do. Somehow, I trust this man I barely know.
He continues tending my wounds in silence for a few minutes, his touch careful and clinical. When he examines my ribs, he frowns deeply.
"These need wrapping," he says. "They might be broken. You should see a doctor in case there’s any internal?—”
"No, please!” The thought of a hospital—of questions, of authorities—makes me stiffen. “I'll be fine."
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods reluctantly. "I can wrap them, but if the pain gets worse, we're going to a doc. Non-negotiable."
I agree, relief washing through me. He helps me lift the edge of the t-shirt just enough to expose my ribcage, his movements clinical and respectful as he wraps a bandage firmly around my torso. Each brush of his fingers against my skin sends little sparks of awareness through me, a sensation I've never experienced before.
"You were good with those strays," he comments as he secures the bandage. "In the alley at the fundraiser."
A smile tugs at my lips despite the pain. "I love animals. They don't judge. They don't hurt you if you're kind to them."
"Unlike people," he says, not as a question.
"Most people," I correct softly. "Not you."
His eyes meet mine and I feel that gaze run through me like liquid fire. “So, you have a fondness for animals.”
I hesitate, then decide to risk the truth. “It’s my dream to someday work with animals. I want to become a veterinary technician." I duck my head, suddenly self-conscious. “Maybe. Someday."
Blade finishes with the bandage and starts putting supplies back in the kit. "Someday?”
“Aunt Margaret…um... She doesn't believe in education for... for servants," I explain, the familiar humiliation washing over me. "She pulled me out of regular school when I was twelve. Said homeschooling would be better, but there was never any actual schooling. Just chores. She said academic education was wasted on someone of my…um…limited capabilities."
The last words catch in my throat. I'd never believed her—not completely—but hearing the same message for years wears down even the strongest resistance.
His eyes darken with anger again, but his voice remains gentle when he speaks. “Anytime you want, we can check out local colleges and see what’s offered. I’ll help you enroll in classes."
My pulse speeds up at the possibility. "Really?"
"Abso-fuckin'-lutely," he confirms, the curse somehow making the offer more genuine. “And whatever else you need—books, tuition, anything, I'll take care of it."
I shake my head, overwhelmed by his generosity. "I don't understand why you're doing all this. You barely know me."
Blade sets the first aid kit aside and takes my hands in his. His are so much larger, calloused and strong, but they hold mine with exquisite gentleness.
"Because from the moment I saw you, I knew," he says simply, directly. No flowery words, no practiced lines—just raw honesty that steals my breath. "I don't have pretty words for it. I just know that I’ll protect you. Care for you."
"But I'm nobody," I whisper, giving voice to the belief that's been hammered into me for years.
Anger flashes in his eyes and I shrink away slightly. "Don't you ever say that again." His voice is low, intense. "You're not nobody. You're brilliant, kind, and strong."
My chest tightens at his words and although I try to fight it, a smile spreads over my lips.
"You're never going back to that bitch," he continues, each word a solemn vow. "Ever."
The certainty in his voice makes me tremble.
"I'll take care of Max." One large hand moves to cup my face. "She has no claim on you anymore."
I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. But hope is dangerous.
"What if she comes looking for me?" I ask, voicing one of my many fears.
"Let her," Blade says with a sinister smile that I suspect would frighten anyone in their right mind. "She'll find out real quick that Shadow Reapers aren't people you fuck with." His thumb traces the outline of my uninjured cheek, feather-light. "No one will hurt you again, Sophie. Not while there's breath in my lungs."
Exhaustion crashes over me suddenly, the adrenaline of the night finally wearing off. I sway slightly where I sit, my eyelids growing heavy.
Blade notices immediately and rises to his feet. He turns down the covers on the bed. "In."
I don't argue, sliding beneath sheets softer than any I've ever felt. The mattress cradles my aching body, and I sink into it with a small sigh of pleasure.
He looks down at me. "Sleep now, princess. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
Princess. The nickname sends a warm flutter through my chest.
As my eyes grow heavy, I watch Blade settle into the leather chair, his large frame looking uncomfortable in the confined space. I should feel guilty, taking his bed while he sits upright, but selfishly, I'm grateful. I feel safe for the first time in years.
Just before sleep claims me, he says, "You never answered me when I asked how old you are."
On a groggy yawn, I tell him the truth, “I’m nineteen. I turned nineteen today."