10. Sophie
Chapter 10
Sophie
The clubhouse kitchen is one of my new favorite places. It's strange how quickly this space has started to feel like home—the scuffed linoleum floor, the industrial-sized coffeemaker that's almost always brewing, the fridge covered in motorcycle rally magnets and crude inside jokes written on Post-its. The space welcomes me.
I’m arranging sandwiches on a platter for the guys who will be out of church soon when I hear the commotion. First, raised voices, then boots rushing down the hallway, and finally Angel bursting into the kitchen, her face tight with concern.
"Sophie," she says, slightly out of breath, "There are cops at the gate. They're asking for you."
The plate slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor, but I barely notice as turkey sandwiches scatter across the linoleum. Blood rushes in my ears, and for a moment, the kitchen seems to tilt around me.
"Police?" My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. "Why would they?—"
But I know. Of course I know.
Aunt Margaret.
A slideshow of horrors plays through my mind—being dragged back to that house, locked in the attic, punished. She’ll never let me leave the property again. She’ll take away even the small freedoms I had before. The thought of returning makes my skin crawl as if insects are burrowing beneath it.
"What—what do they want?" I manage to ask, gripping the countertop to steady myself. My knuckles turn white from the pressure.
Angel crosses to me, carefully stepping over the fallen food. "We don't know exactly. They said something about a complaint from your aunt." She places a hand on my shoulder, her touch anchoring me as panic threatens to pull me under. "Ghost and the officers are still in church. Rash just went to tell them."
I sink to my knees, gathering ruined sandwiches with trembling hands. A small, pathetic task to focus on while my mind races. Of course Aunt Margaret wouldn't just let me go. She never intended for me to have freedom, to have happiness. Not after spending twelve years ensuring I had neither.
"Hey," Angel says softly, crouching beside me. "Stop that. Leave the food. We need to figure out what to do."
"What can we do?" I ask, hating the quiver in my voice. "They're the police." The authority I've been taught to respect but secretly fear, the people Aunt Margaret charmed at countless social functions, making them laugh as she refilled their champagne glasses.
Angel's expression hardens. "You're nineteen, Sophie. They can't force you to go anywhere you don't want to go." She helps me to my feet, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so petite. "But we need to be smart about this. If your aunt has filed some kind of false charges..."
The thought hadn't occurred to me, and fresh terror washes through me. Would Aunt Margaret go that far? I picture her face when she last struck me—the cold rage in her eyes, the slight curl of satisfaction on her lips when I cried out in pain. Yes, she would absolutely go that far. She'd do anything to get me back under her control.
"Sophie." Blade's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts like a blade through fog.
I turn to find him in the doorway, filling the frame with his massive presence. His expression is controlled, but I can see the tension in the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. The sight of him sends equal measures of relief and fear coursing through me.
"They won't take you," he says, the words simple but carrying the weight of an unbreakable promise. Each syllable is carved in stone, absolute.
He crosses the kitchen in three long strides and pulls me against his chest. His heartbeat is steady and strong against my ear, his arms like steel bands around me. I burrow into his warmth, drawing strength from his certainty, inhaling his now-familiar scent.
"I'm scared.” The admission slips out before I can stop it.
"I know, princess." His hand cups the back of my head, cradling me protectively. His fingers thread through my hair in gentle, soothing strokes. “But I'm here. I got you. And I promise you, you never have to go back to that house."
Ghost appears in the doorway, his expression grim. There's a dangerous edge to his movements. “They have a welfare check order," he informs us. "Margaret Whitmore has reported her niece missing and potentially kidnapped." His dark eyes meet mine. "They don't have a warrant, but they do need to confirm you're here of your own free will."
My stomach drops like I'm on a roller coaster, that horrible weightless feeling of freefall. "What if they don't believe me?"
"They will," Blade says firmly, though I feel how his body has tensed further. His muscles are coiled tight, ready to spring into action if necessary.
"We need to let them in," Ghost continues. "Show we have nothing to hide. They just need to see Sophie, talk to her briefly."
Ghost locks eyes with Blade. The unspoken message between them raises goosebumps on my arms.
It's decided that only Ghost and Blade will be present when the officers come in. Angel gives me a quick hug before retreating to find the club whores and ensure they stay out of sight since, according to her, their presence always complicates things.
Blade keeps his arm around me as we walk to the main room of the clubhouse. His touch grounds me, steadies my nerves. I lean into his strength, trying to absorb some of his certainty. The clubhouse feels suddenly different now—no longer a sanctuary, but a fortress preparing for siege.
Blade keeps me pressed against his side as Ghost goes to signal the prospects at the gate to let the police in. "You're an adult. You're here by choice. You're safe,” he reminds me.
I nod, working to control my breathing as the front door opens. My heart hammers so hard I worry they'll hear it, interpret my fear incorrectly.
Two officers enter—one older with salt-and-pepper hair and a weathered face creased with experience, the other younger with a clean-shaven jaw and alert eyes that scan the room with professional assessment. Both wear expressions of cautious neutrality, hands resting near their weapons but not on them.
"Officers,” Ghost greets them formally. He doesn't offer his hand, and neither do the cops.
“I’m Detective Wilson," the older one introduces himself. "This is Officer Reed. We're here about a missing persons report filed by Margaret Whitmore regarding her niece, Sophie Bennett."
All eyes turn to me. I unconsciously press closer to Blade's side, his solid presence the only thing keeping my knees from buckling.
"I'm Sophie," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "And I'm not missing. I’m not a runaway. I’m here by choice."
Detective Wilson studies me, his eyes lingering on the fading bruise around my eye, the healing split in my lip. Something flickers across his face—a flash of what looks like disgust.
"Mrs. Whitmore informs us you were taken against your will by members of this motorcycle club. She's very concerned for your safety."
A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it, the sound harsh and unfamiliar to my own ears. “That’s not true. And she doesn’t care about me. She's concerned about her free labor being gone." The words carry years of repressed anger.
The detective's eyebrow raises slightly, and he exchanges a quick glance with Officer Reed. "Would you mind speaking with us privately, Miss Bennett?"
"Yes," Blade says immediately, his arm tightening around me. "She would mind."
"That's not your decision to make, sir.” Officer Reed’s hand moves subtly closer to his weapon. The tension in the room ratchets up several notches.
"It's okay," I tell Blade, placing my hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath my palm. "I'll talk to them. But I want to stay where I can see you."
Reluctantly, Blade releases me, stepping back just far enough to give the illusion of privacy while remaining within sight. The tension radiating from him is almost palpable, a living thing coiled and ready to strike.
The detective guides me to a nearby table, taking a seat across from me while Officer Reed remains standing, positioned with a clear view of both Blade and Ghost. The younger officer's fingers tap restlessly against his holster, his eyes constantly moving between us all.
"Sophie," Detective Wilson begins, his tone gentler now. "Can you tell me how you came to be here?"
I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts, aware that my future might hinge on how coherently and convincingly I can tell my story. "Blade found me sleeping in my car three nights ago. It was freezing. I was there because my aunt had kicked me out for the night."
"Why would she do that?"
"Because I hadn't cleaned the windows to her satisfaction.” The absurdity of it strikes me anew as I say it aloud. I hear how it sounds—petty, cruel, nonsensical. "She found smudges my cousins deliberately made after I cleaned them. They do that a lot—mess things up for me so I'll get into trouble."
“I can’t help but notice you have bruises.” He gestures vaguely toward my face, then his eyes harden as they land on Blade across the room.
I touch my upper cheek self-consciously, feeling the tender flesh still swollen beneath my fingertips. " She did this. And these." I pull down the neck of my shirt to reveal the yellowed marks on my neck, then lift the edge of my shirt just enough to show the mottled bruising along my ribs. "She's been hurting me like this for years."
Officer Reed shifts his weight, frowning deeply. The detective's professional mask slips for just a moment, revealing something that looks not only like genuine shock, but concern.
"Why didn't you report it?"
“Because…” I look down at my hands, remembering all the times I'd considered running, seeking help. “And then what? To what end? Where would I go? She made sure I had no friends, no money, no education beyond what I could secretly sneak online in the middle of the night. And she..." I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat like sharp pebbles. "She has a dog. Max. She hurts him to punish me. She knows that cruelty to animals hurts me more than anything she could do to me directly."
The detective's expression shifts subtly, a flash of something—anger? compassion?—crossing his features. Whatever it is, it’s clear he did not expect this outcome. He places his hands on his hips. Tucking his thumbs into his waistband. “You're nineteen, correct?"
I nod.
"So you're legally an adult. Free to live wherever you choose." He taps his belt thoughtfully. "Mrs. Whitmore claims you stole from her. Cash, jewelry, clothes."
Indignation flares hot in my chest, a burning sensation that momentarily overwhelms my fear. "That's a lie. I own nothing of value. The clothes I came here in were hand-me-downs from my cousins that barely fit. I've never had access to her money or jewelry."
"She was quite specific. A pearl necklace, cash from her desk drawer, designer clothing."
I shake my head vehemently, anger giving me courage. "I've never taken anything that wasn't mine. You can search everything I own—it would take about three minutes. I have maybe five outfits to my name, and those were bought for me since I got here."
The detective studies me for a long moment, his gaze assessing. “I suppose that’s her word against yours.” I force myself to meet his eyes, to not shrink away as I've been conditioned to do. Finally, he says, “I want you to be completely honest with me. Are you being held here against your will, Sophie? You can tell me. We can protect you."
I meet his gaze steadily, drawing on a well of strength I didn't know I possessed. "I'm here because I choose to be. For the first time in twelve years, I'm safe. I'm fed. I'm not scrubbing floors until my hands bleed or being beaten for missing a spot of dust." My voice grows stronger with each word. "Blade and his club have shown me more kindness in the past twenty-four hours than my aunt has in twelve years."
Detective Wilson's gaze flicks to Blade, then back to me. Something in his expression shifts, softens just slightly. "You understand why we have concerns. Your aunt is a respected community figure. This club has...a certain reputation."
"My aunt," I say slowly, making sure each word is clear, "is very good at appearing to be something she's not." I lean forward slightly. "She sits on charity boards and hosts fundraisers while treating her own niece like something she scraped off her shoe."
The detective sighs and studies me for a long moment, but his eyes are not unkind. "We'll note that you're here voluntarily and appear unharmed aside from injuries you claim were inflicted prior to your arrival." He hands me a card. "If you need anything, or if your situation changes, call this number."
I take the card, relief flooding through me like a physical sensation, making my limbs weak. "Thank you."
"We'll be in touch if further concerns arise," he tells me, and something in his tone makes me think this isn't over. "Your aunt was quite insistent."
Of course Aunt Margaret won't let go easily. But why not? I think of all the times she made sure I knew what a burden I was, what a hardship. You think she’d be happy to be rid of me.
Ghost escorts the officers out, maintaining the same formal politeness he greeted them with. The moment the door closes behind them, Blade is at my side, checking me over as if the brief conversation might have damaged me somehow.
"You okay?" he asks, his hands gently cupping my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.
I nod, though tears well in my eyes. "Max," I whisper, the name carrying all my fear and guilt. “She’s going to be livid and what if she hurts him because of me?"
Blade's expression hardens, determination glinting in his eyes like polished steel. "We'll get him out. Tonight."