13. Blade
Chapter 13
Blade
"You look perfect," I tell her, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed. And fuck, she does—the green blouse brings out her eyes, and the simple jeans hug curves that make my mouth water. The sight of her getting ready for her first day at the vet clinic stirs all my primal, possessive instincts.
"Are you sure it's not too casual?" she asks, turning to check her reflection again. "I want Dr. Keener to take me seriously."
"Trust me, princess. You look professional. Approachable. Perfect for handling fluffy kittens and uptight pet owners."
Her hair is pulled back in a simple braid showcasing the delicate line of her jaw, the subtle curve of her neck that I love to trace with my lips. The bruises have faded to faint yellow shadows, easily concealed with a hint of makeup. With each passing day, she grows more stunning—not just because her physical injuries are healing, but because something inside her is blossoming. Freedom. Confidence. The Sophie who was meant to exist before fear and abuse tried to take her down and didn’t succeed. My princess is too strong.
"Thank you for doing this,” she says, turning to face me fully. "For making this happen."
I push off from the doorframe and close the distance between us, my hands finding her waist, pulling her against me. "You earned this, Sophie. I just made the introduction."
"Still," she murmurs, her hands resting on my chest in that butterfly-light touch that somehow grounds me better than anything else in my fucked-up life ever has. "It means everything to me."
I brush my thumb across her cheek. "Just promise me one thing."
"What's that?"
"If anyone gives you shit—anyone—you call me. Immediately." My voice drops to a growl despite my efforts to keep it casual. The thought of her facing any difficulty makes my fingers itch for my blade, even something as mundane as workplace drama.
She smiles that gentle smile that somehow manages to both calm and ignite me. "I can handle it, Blade. It's just a volunteer position at a veterinary clinic. The worst that could happen is I mess up cleaning a kennel."
I know she's right, but the urge to shield her from every potential hardship is fucking overwhelming. I've never felt this constant gnawing need to protect someone from the world's harshness. This balance between keeping her safe and letting her fly is unfamiliar territory for a man like me—a man used to controlling every aspect of his environment.
"Humor me," I insist, my thumb tracing the pulse point at her wrist. "Promise."
She rises on tiptoes to press her lips softly to mine, and I have to fight the urge to deepen the kiss, to lay her back on the bed and make her late. "I promise."
Half an hour later, I drop her off and watch as she stops to give me a final excited wave before ducking in to the animal clinic.
She'll be fine, I remind myself about a hundred times on the ride back to the clubhouse.
"Cipher's waiting for us in his computer cave,” Ghost fetches me a few hours later. "Says he's gone through the file you gave him and he’s got the goods on Margaret Whitmore—everything we need.”
My jaw tightens, a rush of cold fury washing through my veins. “Let’s nail the bitch.”
Cipher sits surrounded by laptops, printouts, and screens of data as his fingers fly across keyboards. He barely looks up as we enter, completely absorbed in whatever digital rabbit hole he's exploring.
"Talk to me," I demand, taking a seat. Max settles at my feet with a heavy sigh.
Cipher finally glances up. "Margaret Whitmore is, quite possibly, one of the most efficiently corrupt individuals I've ever investigated. And I once tracked financials for a Colombian cartel leader."
He turns a screen toward us. “When they died, Sophie's parents, James and Elizabeth Bennett, left behind a substantial estate for their daughter. Life insurance policies totaling just over two million. Investment portfolios worth another seven hundred thousand. Property—including that mansion—valued at nearly three million. All told, just under 5.3 million dollars."
The numbers make my blood fucking boil. All that money while Sophie wore hand-me-downs and went hungry.
"The entire estate was placed in trust for Sophie, with Margaret named as trustee until Sophie reached the age of eighteen.” Cipher pulls up another document. "Standard arrangements, nothing unusual there. What is unusual is the pattern of withdrawals over the past twelve years."
Charts and spreadsheets flash across the screen, a digital roadmap of systematic theft.
"At first, the withdrawals were reasonable—expenses for Sophie's care and education. But about a year after Margaret gained custody, the pattern changed." His finger traces a sharp upward curve on a graph. "Suddenly, large sums were being diverted from the trust into Margaret's personal accounts and her charities."
"How much has she stolen?" Ghost asks, leaning forward.
"By my calculations, approximately 1.7 million dollars." Cipher's expression remains clinical, but his eyes betray a flicker of disgust. "She's pilfered from the trust in amounts just low enough to avoid triggering automatic audits, but she's been systematically draining it for years."
"And the charities?" I ask, thinking of Sophie's descriptions of the endless fundraisers she was forced to work.
Cipher's mouth twists. "Classic shell game. She runs seven different charitable foundations, all with noble-sounding missions. Children's Welfare Foundation, Hope for Tomorrow, Future Leaders Fund... each one legitimate on paper. Each one primarily funding Margaret Whitmore's lifestyle."
He pulls up more documents—financial statements, tax filings, bank records. "She's been using charity funds to pay for her daughters' private school tuition, European vacations, clothing allowances, even redecorating the mansion."
"The same mansion where she had Sophie scrubbing floors," I growl, knuckles whitening as I grip the armrests. "While sleeping in a fucking attic."
"Exactly." Cipher nods grimly. "I've pulled together enough evidence to put her away for wire fraud, embezzlement, and tax evasion at minimum."
"What about the local authorities?" Ghost asks. "She's tight with the police chief, the mayor."
"That's why we don’t go local," Cipher replies, pushing a file toward us. "We go federal. I've compiled a complete dossier for the FBI's financial crimes division. Anonymous tip from a concerned citizen ."
I lean back, weighing our options. Part of me—a large, violent part—wants to handle this the old-fashioned way. A midnight visit to Margaret Whitmore with one of the blades from my collection would solve the problem permanently.
"How soon before the Feds move?" I ask, forcing myself to think rationally.
"Hard to say. Could be days, could be weeks. They'll need to verify the information, get warrants." Cipher shrugs. "But once they start digging, she's finished. The evidence is too overwhelming."
Ghost meets my gaze across the table, reading the conflict in my eyes. "We could speed things along. Drop a few hints to the press. Nothing specific, just enough to get people asking questions."
I nod slowly, a plan forming. "And in the meantime, we keep Sophie safe. If Margaret suspects we're building a case..."
"She'll lash out," Ghost finishes. "Target what she perceives as hers. Sophie. The dog."
"I'll fucking gut her if she tries," I say flatly, the words hanging in the quiet room like a promise.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Ghost responds carefully. "For Sophie's sake more than Whitmore's."
The meeting continues for another hour as we review every detail of Cipher's findings and strategize our next moves. By the time we finish, cold fury has settled in my gut. The systematic cruelty Margaret showed Sophie wasn't just sadism—it was calculated business. Keep the girl broken, isolated, and dependent to maintain control of her money.
As we exit the chapel, the roar of multiple vehicles approaching the compound draws our attention. I tense instinctively, hand moving to the knife at my waist. Max's ears perk up, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
"Expecting company?" Ghost asks, already signaling to Saint to check the security cameras.
"No." I move toward the monitors in the main room, watching as three vehicles pull up to our gates—a sleek black Mercedes flanked by two SUVs with tinted windows. Private security, not cops. Still dangerous.
My blood runs cold when I recognize the woman emerging from the Mercedes.
Margaret Whitmore.
She's dressed for battle in a perfectly tailored cream pantsuit, diamonds glittering at her ears and throat. Even through the grainy security feed, I can see the cold entitlement in her posture, the expectation that gates will open and people will scramble to accommodate her.
"Looks like the mountain came to Mohammed,” Ghost says with dangerous calm.
"Let her in," I decide after a moment. "Just her. The muscle stays outside."
Ghost raises an eyebrow but doesn't question my judgment. He signals to the prospect manning the gate.
On the monitor, we watch Margaret's face contort with indignation at being separated from her security. For a moment, it seems she might refuse to enter alone. Then, gathering herself with visible effort, she strides through the gate, her heels clicking aggressively on the pavement like the approach of some predatory bird.
"Showtime," Ghost mutters, stepping back to give me space. This is my fight.
I meet her at the door before she can knock, Max at my side, hackles raised. The dog's reaction to seeing his former abuser is immediate—a deep, threatening growl that seems to vibrate through his entire body.
“I knew it," Margaret snaps pointing at the dog. “I knew the thing was here.”
When Max doesn’t cower in front of her, but instead continues to growl threateningly, his hackles raised, she takes a step back. “Control that animal,” she demands.
Despite her attempt at bravado, she's afraid of the dog, I realize with grim satisfaction. Good. Max remembers exactly who she is and what she did to him.
"Max, stay," I command, placing a hand on his head. The dog quiets but remains alert, eyes fixed on Margaret with unmistakable hostility. "Mrs. Whitmore. What an unpleasant surprise."
Her gaze sweeps over me with practiced disdain, taking in my cut, the visible tattoos on my arms, the knife sheath at my waist. "I've come for my niece and my dog."
She’s expensively maintained, with perfectly styled blonde hair and coldly calculating blue eyes. The kind of woman who's used to getting her way through a combination of money, social standing, and carefully calibrated intimidation.
“Nothing here belongs to you.” I block the doorway with my body.
Her smile is brittle, stretched thin over obvious rage. "Sophie is confused and vulnerable. She's been through a traumatic experience, and she needs professional help—not whatever... arrangement... you've coerced her into."
The implication in her tone makes my fingers itch for my blade. I force myself to remain still, to match her cold calculation with my own controlled menace.
"Step inside," I tell her. "We'll talk in private."
"I most certainly will not enter that—" She gestures dismissively at the clubhouse.
"Then you can leave the way you came." I begin to close the door.
"Wait." The command in her voice speaks of a lifetime of privilege, of expecting instant obedience. I pause, not out of respect but curiosity. How far will she go? "I'm prepared to be generous, Mr.—"
"Blade," I correct her. "Just Blade."
She sniffs disapprovingly. "Very well, 'Blade.' I understand men like you respond to...incentives. Name your price for returning my niece and my property."
The casual way she groups Sophie with property—with the dog she abused—sends a surge of murderous rage through me. I step forward, invading her personal space, satisfied when she instinctively retreats despite her determination to appear unafraid.
"Let me be perfectly fucking clear," I say, my voice dropping to a register that has made hardened criminals piss themselves. "Sophie is not yours. Neither is Max."
Margaret's mask slips slightly, revealing the ugliness beneath her carefully maintained facade. "That girl owes me everything. Twelve years of food, shelter, clothing?—"
"Paid for with her own inheritance," I interrupt. The shock that flashes across her face confirms what we already knew. She had no idea we'd discovered the financial fraud. "That's right. We know all about the Bennett trust fund. We also know about every fucking penny you stole from it.”
For a moment, she's speechless, her perfectly made-up face frozen in calculation. Then she rallies, shoulders squaring as she attempts to regain the upper hand.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. I've been a devoted guardian, sacrificing my own comfort to provide for an ungrateful child who?—"
"Save it for the FBI," I cut her off again, enjoying how each interruption makes a vein pulse at her temple. "They'll be particularly interested in how you've been running your charities. Creative accounting doesn't begin to cover it."
The blood drains from her face, leaving her complexion chalky beneath what are no doubt way overpriced cosmetics. For the first time, I see real fear in her eyes—not the performative concern of earlier, but the genuine terror of someone watching their carefully constructed house of cards crumbling.
"You're bluffing," she says, but there's no conviction in her voice. "You have nothing."
"Bank statements. Wire transfers. Tax documents with your signature. Twelve years of systematic theft." I smile, the expression devoid of warmth. "How's that for nothing?"
Her composure cracks, revealing the vicious creature beneath. "You think you've won? You have no idea who you're dealing with. I have connections—people who would make one phone call and erase you and this entire pathetic club from existence."
"Make those calls," I encourage her, stepping closer, using my height to tower over her. "I'll damn sure be making mine. To the press. To the FBI. To every wealthy donor you've ever scammed."
Her face contorts with impotent rage, red blotches breaking through her makeup. "You lowlife thug. You think she'll stay with you? That anyone would choose this—" she waves dismissively at the clubhouse "—over the life I can provide?"
"The life you provided was slavery," comes a quiet voice from behind me.
I turn to see Sophie standing in the doorway, hair escaping from her braid. Angel is behind her breathing heavily and it’s clear that Angel must have rushed over to fetch Sophie from the clinic the moment Margaret arrived.
I’m not sure how to feel about that.
I don’t know if I like the idea of Sophie stepping into the middle of this confrontation. My eyes narrow on Angel who just raises her brows and shrugs feigning complete innocence.
Despite the alarm evident on her face, Sophie stands taller than I've ever seen, shoulders back, chin raised.
"Sophie," Margaret's voice instantly transforms, becoming honey-sweet and concerned. "Darling, I've been so worried. These people have filled your head with lies?—"
"Stop." Sophie's command is soft but firm. "I heard what you said. About owing you. About me being your property." She steps forward to stand beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. "I'm not your property. I never was."
Margaret's eyes narrow, assessing this new, assertive Sophie with cold calculation. "You ungrateful little—" she catches herself, the mask slipping back into place with visible effort. "You're confused, dear. Let me take you home. We can sort this all out."
"This is my home now," Sophie replies simply. Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "With Blade. With people who actually care about me."
I squeeze her hand, fierce pride swelling in my chest at her courage, her strength. The frightened girl I found sleeping in her car only days ago would never have stood up to her abuser like this.
Margaret's expression hardens, calculation replacing the fake concern. "Fine. Keep the girl. But the dog is legally mine, and I will have him back."
"Let me explain something to you," I say, closing the distance between Margaret and myself until she's forced to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “You are done. Every piece of evidence we have will soon be in the hands of every federal agency in the country. Your daughters aren’t just losing their home and college funds , soon they'll be visiting their mother in federal prison."
Margaret pales as she sees the truth in my eyes, the absolute certainty that I am going to burn her world to ashes without hesitation or regret.
Margaret's face twists with hatred, all pretense abandoned. "This isn't over," she hisses, but the threat sounds hollow now, desperation creeping in at the edges. For a moment, I think she might actually try to attack Sophie—her hands curl into claws, her body tensing. Max growls again, a warning that has her stepping back.
"You'll regret this," she says flatly, turning on her heel and stalking toward the gate.
We watch in silence as she climbs back into her Mercedes, barking orders at her security team before the small convoy speeds away in a spray of gravel.
"You okay?" I ask Sophie once the vehicles disappear from view, turning to search her face for signs of distress.
She nods, though her hands tremble slightly. "I didn't expect... I've never stood up to her before." A small smile curves her lips. "It felt good."
"You were magnificent," I tell her honestly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Fucking regal. A true princess.”
Her smile widens, a blush coloring her cheeks. "I had good backup." She crouches to pet Max, who leans into her touch with obvious devotion. "Both of you."
The brothers who witnessed the confrontation approach cautiously, respect evident in their eyes as they look at Sophie. Hawk gives her a small nod, while Saint, for once in his life, remains respectfully silent.
"That woman's a fucking psychopath," Ghost observes, watching the cloud of dust settling after Margaret's departure.