Page 5 of Property of Blade (Kings of Anarchy MC: Alaska #1)

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Hannah

T he kettle whistles , steam curling into the air as I pour boiling water into my favorite teapot.

As the scent of strawberries and cream tea fills the kitchen, a small smile tugs at my lips.

It’s my morning ritual, the one little indulgence I allow myself every day besides my hidden stash of chocolate.

Life is so different here. In LA, it was get up, get dressed, wolf down breakfast, and pour my tea into a travel mug before heading out the door.

There was no time to breathe, no time to just exist. But here?

Here, I can take my time. I sit down. I savor the warmth of my cup and the quiet that surrounds me.

It’s strange, almost foreign, this peace I’ve never known.

It’s a quiet that doesn’t feel forced but earned.

I’ve come to realize it’s a small way that I’m healing, slowly learning to live in this new normal.

Alaska, with all her wild beauty, is the one thing I didn’t know I was searching for. It’s as if the landscape mirrors what I feel inside—a place where I can slowly rebuild, unhurried, without the constant hum of my old life trying to pull me back.

Grace, my fluffy gray menace of a cat, jumps onto the dining chair and fixes me with her usual demanding stare.

“You’ve been fed,” I remind her, setting the teapot on a tray with its matching cup.

She meows long and loud.

“No. I’m not feeding you more. Have you seen your ass? Hell, have you seen mine? No more food for either of us until lunch.”

Her tail flicks. Her judgment is clear. With an exaggerated sigh that only a cat could manage, she hops off the chair and pads to the living room, gracefully leaping onto the window seat.

Sunlight streams through the glass, pooling around her as if she owns it.

I swear she’s muttering curses under her breath as she settles in for her morning nap.

Grace has been my steady companion through all of this, her presence a constant reminder of the life I’m rebuilding.

My small apartment in LA was hardly big enough for both of us, and when Travis and I became an item, it was almost impossible.

Travis never liked her, and well, Grace hated him.

He would lock her in the bathroom or a closet and then pretend he hadn’t seen her.

I shake my head, grab the tray with my teapot and cup, and carry it to my office.

Thinking of Travis always makes me feel as though I let Grace and myself down.

If I hadn’t had my accident and ended up with scars, I might have married that jerk, and it could have taken me longer to realize he was never right for me.

My house is huge compared to my apartment, but in terms of the homes surrounding me, it’s small.

At first, the quiet would unnerve me as LA is so loud that even at night, the light was always there.

Here, it’s dark, quiet, and everything feels so big.

As I put the tray on my desk, it signals the start of my workday and makes me smile.

Bookkeeping is perfect for me. I can work from anywhere, and even back in LA, it was rare to meet clients in person.

COVID changed everything and made working from home normal, even expected.

It gave me the freedom to leave the corporate grind and start my own business.

It was a blessing in disguise, especially after my accident.

I didn’t have to face anyone or endure their awkward, sympathetic stares. I didn’t have to hear their pity or feel their eyes lingering too long on my scars. Even Travis, my boyfriend, or at least I thought he was, couldn’t bear to look at me.

I shouldn’t have gotten on that bike. I never liked motorcycles, but Travis lived to show off, and I lived to keep him happy. That night, we were coming back from a party. He’d been drinking just enough to feel invincible.

“Slow down,” I’d shouted over the roar of the engine, my fingers digging into his waist.

He just laughed, his hand twisting the throttle harder.

The dog came out of nowhere, darting from the shadows. Travis swerved, the tires screeched, and then we were airborne. I hit the pavement hard, the world spinning, my body tumbling over gravel and asphalt, a rag doll at its mercy. Blackness swallowed me before the pain could.

When I woke up in the hospital, I was a different person. The mirrors told me so with scars carving their stories across my face and arms, and my leg wrapped tight in bandages that couldn’t hide the damage beneath.

Travis? He walked away with barely a scratch. At first, he came to see me, but his visits grew shorter, his smiles more forced.

The last time I saw him, I overheard him telling a nurse, “She’s not the same anymore. I don’t even recognize her.”

That’s when I knew the truth. Travis had never loved me, not really. I was his golden ticket, his pretty, put-together girlfriend who paid the bills and kept his life comfortable. The accident ripped away the illusion and, with it, his interest in me.

Once I was healed, I packed what was left of my life and fled to Alaska. I needed a fresh start, a place where no one knew me, where I could rebuild myself without the weight of judgment or pity.

Of course, Grace came with me. Apart from locking her in closets or my bathroom, he once tried to lock her outside.

She’s never been outside on her own, and although she’s still begrudgingly getting used to her harness, I would never let her wander alone.

Any man who doesn’t like cats is suspect in my book.

Pouring my tea into my favorite cup I settle into the chair. The soft glow of my laptop screen lights up as I move the mouse and open my emails.

A quick scan shows just a dozen messages. Four of them are from my favorite clothing stores, tempting me with sales and ‘last chance’ offers. I smile, grateful for the modern magic of online shopping. If I had to step into an actual store, I’d probably live in sweatpants and flannels.

The rest of the emails are from clients with spreadsheets attached, asking questions about deductions, and one overly wordy message about how grateful they are for my work.

I don’t mind. I love my job, the steady rhythm of numbers, and the satisfaction of helping people make sense of their finances.

Sipping my tea, I dive in, sorting invoices, double-checking figures, and tweaking reports. It’s the kind of work that requires focus but rewards precision, and I thrive on it. By the time I hit ‘send’ on the last email, four hours have flown by.

I stretch, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness, and feel a soft nudge at my feet. Looking down, I see Grace, her bright yellow eyes peering up at me expectantly.

“Oh, now you want my attention?” I tease, reaching down to scratch behind her ears. She purrs loudly, her tail curling in contentment.

Grace follows me everywhere, my little shadow, and in moments like this, I’m reminded just how lucky I am to have her.

“Lunch?” I say, pushing back my chair. Grace pads beside me into the kitchen, her tail swishing with anticipation. “You’re not getting wet food, only dry. I’m cutting you back, missy.”

Opening the cupboard, I grab the small scoop that came with her ridiculously overpriced food and fill her bowl. She immediately starts munching, completely ignoring me.

“You’re such a Garfield,” I mutter, shaking my head with a smile.

Turning to the refrigerator, I pull open the door and grab a container of spaghetti sauce I made last night. The house came with a massive refrigerator and freezer combo—almost too big for just me, but perfect for storing my meal-prepped creations.

Setting the sauce on the kitchen counter, I fill a pot with water, putting it on to boil.

While it heats, I pop the sauce into the microwave.

As the water starts to bubble, I toss in the angel hair pasta—my favorite, since it only takes three minutes to cook.

As the sauce warms, I grate some parmesan to sprinkle on top.

My thoughts wander to Blade. He didn’t ask for money when he helped me the other night and honestly, that’s a first. In LA, everything came with a price—no one ever did anything just for the sake of being nice. Travis had conditioned me to expect that.

But Blade seemed different. He had grumbled about my Mini Cooper, sure, and wasn’t exactly warm, but he still took the time to help me, even in the freezing cold—well, I was cold—no strings attached.

The microwave beeps, snapping me out of my thoughts.

A quick check of the pasta brings a smile to my face as it’s perfectly cooked.

Quickly I drain it, put it into a bowl then pour the sauce over it.

Next, I sprinkle a generous amount of parmesan on top, before carrying my bowl to the dining table.

I should thank him and do something small to show my appreciation.

A sudden idea pops into my head. Cookies. Everyone likes cookies, right? I could bake him a batch, maybe something classic like chocolate chip. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be something.

Grace hops onto the chair across from me, her gaze locked on my plate. Pointing my fork at her, I say, “Don’t even think about it. You’ve got your food, and I’m not sharing. Besides, I put garlic in it, and that’s bad for kitties.”

She blinks at me, unimpressed, and eventually turns her attention back to the sunlit window.

As I twirl my spaghetti, I find myself smiling. Baking cookies for Blade. It’s not a big deal, just a small thank you. And yet, I feel a little spark of anticipation at the thought of seeing him again.

And then the nerves settle in. I’ll have to go to the grocery store to buy ingredients. People will see my scars. They might even ask me about them. The spark of anticipation has turned into a spark of dread.