Chapter 7 - Blade
"Clear," I say, motioning for her to follow me into the hallway.
She moves like a ghost beside me, barefoot and silent in my oversized clothes.
The sweatpants bunch ridiculously around her ankles despite being rolled at the waist, and my t-shirt hangs to mid-thigh on her smaller frame.
She should look absurd. Instead, something primal stirs in me at the sight of her wearing my clothes, carrying my scent.
I shove the feeling down, burying it with all the other shit I don't let myself think about.
The prospect is exactly where he should be, watching the front entrance. His eyes widen slightly when he sees Kelly, but one look from me has him snapping his attention back to the door. Smart kid. He'll make it to full patch if he keeps learning that quickly.
The kitchen is dark and quiet. I flip on the small light over the stove rather than the overhead fluorescents. Less jarring, less likely to wake anyone else who might be sleeping in the clubhouse. The last thing I need is an audience for whatever the fuck this is.
Kelly slides onto a barstool at the island while I open the fridge, surveying our options. Not much. The club's been focused on the war with the Vultures MC, not grocery shopping. I pull out bread, turkey, cheese, and mustard. Simple, but it'll do.
"You cook?" she asks.
"When I have to." I place a sandwich in front of her, then start making my own. "Lived alone most of my life. Had to learn."
She takes a bite, closing her eyes briefly as she chews. When she opens them again, I realize I've been staring at her like some fucking creep. I force myself to look away, focusing on my own food.
What the hell is wrong with me? I don't do this.
This midnight kitchen bullshit, this sharing space with someone who isn't a brother, this.
.. talking. Especially not about the past. Yet an hour ago, I told her things I've never told anyone.
Not even Reaper knows the details of what happened in that last foster home, the one that finally broke something in me that can never be fixed.
I killed that past. Buried it deep. It should have stayed buried.
But sitting across from this girl… This stranger in a torn wedding dress who punched me in the face twenty minutes ago, I actually feel the words rising in my throat. Dangerous words. True words. The kind that can be used against you.
The same kind of words my brothers have been throwing around lately. Ghost, telling me how Debbie saved him from his darkness. Reaper, defending his relationship because she "sees the man beneath the monster." Even young Ace, grinning like an idiot because the schoolteacher is carrying his kid.
*"Love is a strength, not a weakness, brother,"* Ghost had told me just last week, *"You should try it sometime."*
I'd told him to fuck off. Love is for people who haven't seen what I've seen, done what I've done. For people who still have something left inside them that can feel that shit.
But now, watching Kelly eat the sandwich I made her, her blonde hair falling around her face and her blue eyes clearer than they were when I found her on that roadside, I'm not so sure.
And that scares the shit out of me.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks suddenly, breaking into my thoughts. "You look like you're trying to solve world hunger over there."
I grunt, taking another bite of my sandwich instead of answering. She doesn't push, just continues eating, comfortable with the silence in a way most people aren't.
When we finish, I take our plates to the sink and rinse them. Behind me, I hear her shift on the barstool.
"Do you ever think about the future?" she asks.
I turn, leaning against the counter. "What about it?"
"You know, dreams. Things you want to do. Places you want to go. The life you want to build."
I almost laugh. Dreams? I stopped having those around the time I realized the world was designed to crush them.
"No," I say flatly.
"Never?" She looks genuinely surprised. "Everyone has dreams."
"Not me." I cross my arms over my chest. "I live in the present. Deal with what's in front of me. Planning too far ahead is just setting yourself up for disappointment."
She considers this, head tilted slightly. "That's a sad way to live."
"It's realistic."
"It's limiting." There's no judgment in her voice, just a simple statement of fact. "Even in the worst times with the Vultures MC, I had dreams. They kept me going."
Against my better judgment, I find myself asking, "What dreams?"
A small smile touches her lips, transforming her face. For a moment, I glimpse who she might have been before the Vultures MC, before whatever hardships came before them. Young. Hopeful. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with looks.
"I want to open a flower shop," she says, and there's a warmth in her voice I haven't heard before. "Nothing fancy, just a small place with good quality blooms. Somewhere people come for special occasions or just to brighten someone's day."
"Flowers?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice. Of all the things she might have said, that wasn't what I expected.
She nods, her smile widening slightly. "I worked at a flower shop in high school.
It was the only job I ever really loved.
There's something about flowers, you know?
They're so delicate, so temporary, but they bring so much joy.
Even in the worst situations, flowers can make things a little better. "
I try to picture it. Kelly surrounded by colorful blooms, arranging bouquets, her hands gentle with petals instead of trembling in fear. It's a sharp contrast to the woman I found on the roadside or the one who watched me kill without flinching.
"What would you call it?" I find myself asking. "Your shop."
"Second Bloom," she says without hesitation. "Because everyone deserves a second chance to grow and become something beautiful."
The name hits me harder than it should. Second chances aren't something I've ever believed in, not for myself anyway. Once you're broken, you stay broken. That's been my experience.
"That's... nice," I say inadequately, uncomfortable with the sudden tightness in my chest.
"What about you?" she presses. "Before you say 'no' again, think about it. If you could do anything, be anything, what would it be?"
I open my mouth to repeat that I don't have dreams, but something in her expression stops me.
She's offering something here—a kind of genuine interest that has nothing to do with fear or obligation or utility.
No one looks at me like that. No one asks what I want beyond my next assignment for the club.
"I don't know," I admit finally. "Never thought about it."
She seems to accept this, nodding slightly. "Maybe you should."
"Why? What's the point?" The words come out harsher than I intended. "Planning for something that might never happen is a waste of time."
"Because dreams aren't just about the destination," she says quietly. "They're about having a direction. A reason to keep going when things get hard."
I look away, uncomfortable with the way her words seem to reach inside me and touch something I've kept buried. I've survived this long without dreams or direction beyond the club's next move. I don't need that shit now.
"We should get back," I say, pushing off from the counter. "You need sleep."
She slides off the barstool, not arguing but not looking convinced either.
As we walk back through the main room, the prospect pointedly keeps his eyes on the door, though I can practically feel his eyes following us.
Tomorrow, rumors will fly through the clubhouse about Blade and the mystery woman in his clothes.
Let them talk. I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks.
Except Reaper. His opinion matters. And he's already suspicious about why I brought Kelly back to the clubhouse, why I put her in my room instead of one of the empty ones. I don't have a good answer for him because I don't have a good answer for myself.
Back in my room, Kelly hesitates by the bed, suddenly looking uncertain. "I can sleep on the floor if you want your bed back."
"Take the bed," I tell her, moving toward the chair I was sitting in before her nightmare woke her. "I don't sleep much anyway."
She frowns slightly. "That can't be comfortable."
I shrug. I've slept in foxholes and on concrete floors. A chair is luxury by comparison.
She sits on the edge of the mattress but makes no move to lie down. Instead, she watches me with those too-perceptive blue eyes.
"Can I ask you something?" she says after a moment.
I should say no. Should tell her to go the fuck to sleep and stop asking questions. Instead, I find myself nodding.
"Have you ever tried to find your parents? Your real ones, I mean."
The question lands like a punch to the gut. Unexpected. Painful. I feel my face harden, the walls slamming back into place.
"No."
"Never? Not even when you were a kid?"
"What part of 'no' wasn't clear?" I snap.
She doesn't flinch at my tone. Doesn't back down. Just keeps looking at me with those steady eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
The simple apology deflates my anger. I run a hand over my face.
"There's nothing to find," I say finally. "My mother left me at a fire station when I was three days old. No note, no identification, nothing. They never found her."
"And your father?"
I laugh, a harsh sound with no humor in it. "Could be anyone. Some guy who fucked her and left, most likely. What does it matter?"
"It doesn't, I guess. I just... I spent so much time wondering about my parents after they left. Why they did it. If they ever regretted it. If they ever looked for us."
"Did they?" I find myself asking.