I pause, halfway to the door. No one has asked me that in years. In the club, I'm just Blade. It's who I am, all I need to be.
"Marcus," I answer, surprising myself. "Marcus Davidson."
"Marcus," she repeats softly, testing the name. It sounds strange in her mouth, like she's talking about someone else entirely. Someone who isn't me.
"No one calls me that," I tell her. "It's Blade. Just Blade."
She nods, accepting this. "Goodnight, Blade."
I grunt in response and leave before I can do anything else unexpected, like tell her more about myself or, worse, stay.
The door closes behind me with a definitive click. I stand in the hallway for a moment, listening. After a few seconds, I hear the creak of the mattress as she finally lies down. Good. She needs the rest, and I need... space. Distance. Perspective.
I head to the main room, unsurprised to find Reaper still at the bar, now alone. Ghost must have gone to bed. Reaper looks up as I approach, pushing a shot glass of whiskey toward me without a word.
I take it, tossing it back in one swallow, welcoming the burn.
"Where's Ace?" I ask, setting the empty glass down.
"Sent him to bed. Kid was dead on his feet after pulling a double watch." Reaper studies me as he pours me another shot. "You want to tell me what the fuck you're doing?"
I don't pretend to misunderstand. "She's a lead on Charles. First real one we've had."
"That’s why you offered your room instead of putting her in one of the empty ones?"
I shrug, downing the second shot. "Made sense to keep her close. Keep an eye on her."
"Bullshit." Reaper's voice is calm but firm. "In all the years we’ve known each other, I've never seen you give a shit about anyoneoutside the club. Now suddenly you're bringing home strays in wedding dresses and letting them wear your cut?"
He noticed that. Of course he did. Nothing gets past Reaper.
"It was cold," I say flatly. "She was shivering."
Reaper snorts. "Try again."
I meet his gaze, feeling a flash of irritation. "What do you want me to say? That I've gone soft? That I'm thinking with my dick? Neither is true."
"Then what is true?"
I consider the question, genuinely trying to find an answer that makes sense. "She's different," I finally say. "She watched me kill two men tonight and didn't fall apart. Helped me dump a car with two more bodies in it. Most civilians would be catatonic after that shit."
Reaper nods slowly. "So, she's tough. Still doesn't explain why you've suddenly developed a protective streak."
"I don't know, alright?" The admission comes out harsher than I intended. "There's something about her. Something... familiar."
Understanding dawns in Reaper's eyes. "She reminds you of yourself. Before the club."
I don't answer, which is answer enough. Reaper is one of the few people who knows anything about my past. The orphanage, the foster homes, the violence that shaped me long before I found the brotherhood of the MC.
"Just be careful," he says after a moment. "If she really was supposed to marry one of Charles's men, this could get messy fast. And if she's lying..." He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.
"I know." I push the empty glass away. "I'll handle it."
Reaper nods, accepting this. "Get some sleep. We'll talk to her in the morning."
I should go crash on one of the couches in the common room or take an empty bed in the dorms. But as I walk away from the bar, my feet carry me back toward my room—toward Kelly.
I tell myself I'm just checking on her. Making sure she's actually sleeping and not snooping through my shit or trying to contact someone. It's reasonable. Prudent, even.
