Chapter Thirty-Seven
Blade’s POV
I didn't waste a single heartbeat.
I grabbed my backup blade, jammed it into my boot, and threw my black leather cut over my shoulders. The newspaper clipping of my father stayed on the desk, his faded eyes staring up into the dark room. There would be time to figure out Preacher’s angle later. Right now, I had to stop Grip from digging up my grave.
The compound was dead quiet as I slipped into the midnight shadows. The moon was high and cold, casting long, skeletal reflections across the dirt lot. I kept low, moving along the back of the tool sheds until the rear entrance of the clubhouse garage came into view.
A single, faint yellowish light was burning inside the small tech-bay window.
I approached the side door, my hand resting on the metal handle
