**Chapter 2** Bash stared into his glass, the amber liquid swirling in the bottom of the tumbler, as he contemplated his surroundings. “I fucking hate it here,” he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the symphony of laughter and clinking glasses that filled the grand ballroom. He tipped back the whiskey, feeling its warmth trickle down his throat, igniting a dull buzz of numbness that tried to soothe the irritation blooming in his chest. The opulence of the event was suffocating; stunning pastel flowers spilled from every archway and pillar like decorative waterfalls, and yet they did nothing to mask the monotony of yet another Midsummer Night’s Dream-themed gala—a repetition that had become monotonous and pretentious over the years. Resting against a solitary pillar devoid of blooms, Bash surveyed the lavish spectacle before him. The golden chandeliers glimmered like a thousand tiny stars, their light drenching the crowd in an airy glow, but instead of feeling enchanted, he felt an unsettling boredom creeping in—again. Each year melded into the next, a dizzying routine crafted by the hand of the Order of Saints, a cabal that had orchestrated his life since he could remember. He had once dreamed of becoming a Lord and seizing his family’s legacy, but that ideal had soured, leaving him trapped in a world where the meek craved power as vigorously as the ambitious. Five years had passed in eerie silence, a calm that left him restless, an incessant itch beneath his skin that he couldn’t scratch. “Lord Everette,” a voice sliced through the haze of his thoughts. A finely dressed man stood before him, bowing so deeply that Bash caught a glimpse of the gray strands creeping through the dyed brown of his hair. The silver wolf pin on his lapel proclaimed him a member of the Saints, a fact that filled Bash with an immediate sense of irritation. He recognized the man instantly as the head of the Whistborn family—an ancient relic of the Order—his age evident in every wrinkle that creased his face. “It’s a fine evening, isn’t it, sir?” the elder Whistborn said, though Bash's silence lingered like a thick fog. His gaze shifted to the boy at the man’s side, a teenager dressed in a perfect replica of his father’s attire, who stood rigidly with his head turned away, an all-too-familiar spectacle of an Unsainted trying too hard to earn his stripes. “What, can’t you lower him a little more, Whistborn?” Bash quipped, eyebrow raised as he scrutinized the boy, Charlie, who bore the look of a deer in headlights—a puppy eager to please his owner but too naive to know the nature of their game. The Whistborn patriarch flinched at his words, but to Bash's amusement, a flicker of determination sparked in Charlie’s eyes, and he stepped forward, fist clenched, expecting to impress. Bash’s heart raced with excitement as Charlie's fingers constricted around his collar. It was a blatant display of audacity—a dare from a boy who clearly had no idea of the consequences. “Go on…hit me,” he taunted, leaning forward into the boy’s grip, seeking a rush that had eluded him for too long. Who knew boredom could be disrupted so easily? The room fell silent as the air thickened with tension, the thrill of potential chaos electrifying. “Coward,” he whispered, his words a provocative push as he sensed Charlie’s grip trembling—fear sinking in, reality crashing down. The boy hesitated, and for a moment, it felt as though the universe hung in the balance. But then, just when he thought this mundane evening might transform into something lively, Charlie’s resolve collapsed like a house of cards. Bash felt a pang of disappointment as the boy's grip slackened, retreating away under the shadow of his father’s disapproving glare. “Idiot,” the elder Whistborn growled, pulling Charlie closer as if to shield him from the glaring truth of this place. The young man’s shoulders trembled beneath his father’s hand, a cocktail of youthful rebellion and paternal disappointment, and Bash couldn’t help but smirk—a bittersweet enjoyment in witnessing their dynamic. “Our deepest apologies. My son hasn’t been himself lately… He’s nervous about college…” the man stammered, and Bash couldn't suppress the disgust curling in his gut. It was a string of pitiful excuses that soured his mood all over again. He sighed, dismissive. “Leave.” The shock traversed the elder Whistborn's features, but he quickly bowed and retreated, dragging his son behind him like a chastised pup. As they melted into the throng of guests, Bash rubbed his temples, irritation simmering. Where the hell was Xander? His brother was meant to rescue him from the hellhole of small talk and empty pleasantries. With only eleven months between their births, they were practically inseparable, twin flames igniting mischief at every opportunity. But Xander, that damned bastard, had chosen New York over their brotherly escapades, buried in the paperwork and corporate grind of Windsor Industries like an overworked drone. “Stop playing with them.” Damon’s voice, firm yet weary, broke through his brooding thoughts as he stepped up beside Bash. “It’s just too fun. I can’t help it,” Bash replied, a nonchalant grin spreading across his face. The monotony of the evening begged for a spark, and he intended to seek it out. Damon’s sigh filled the space between them, doubling as both an admonition and an invitation to change the subject. “See any woman you like? Wouldn’t hurt you to find a good one and settle down.” Bash laughed, a sound steeped in mockery. “What, like you and Matthias did? No, thank you. You two are so whipped, I’m surprised you still have your balls.” The words tumbled out without restraint, a playful jab at the other brothers who had somehow embraced domesticity with alarming enthusiasm, trading wild nights for peaceful home-life routines and a gaggle of adorable children. “Jealous?” Damon teased, squeezing Bash’s shoulder with an affectionate smile. Bash fought the undeniable truth: yes, he envied the bond his brothers shared with their partners. They had both known instantly that their respective women were “the one,” and had navigated their twisted paths fearlessly. But that kind of intoxicating love always seemed just out of reach for him, like a beautifully crafted mirage. “One day, you’ll find her. Until then, stay out of trouble,” Damon said, the softness in his eyes hinting at a protective instinct. Bash flicked him a wry look, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “I’ll try.” “Xander invited you to New York for a reason,” Damon pushed, glancing at Bash’s sullen expression. There was no way Bash could endure endless hours enveloped in corporate jargon and mundane reports—his idea of hell. “What? And miss all this fun?” His gaze panned across the familiar sea of faces—a parade of past events blended into the tapestry of his life—each encounter echoing with the déjà vu of sameness. Finally, when he glanced at his watch, relief washed over him. Just a few more minutes, and he would have fulfilled his quota of polite appearances, ready to make a swift exit into the night. “I know that look,” Damon remarked knowingly, his protective brotherly instincts on full display. Bash ignored him, eyes scanning the crowd until something caught his attention. A fiery cascade of red hair glimmered like molten silver, illuminating the space as Anastasia Volkov glided through the room—a vision of grace personified. The years of training as a ballerina shone through every movement she made, her posture commanding attention as the black gown she wore hugged her every curve. He released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, captivated by the exquisite elegance she embodied. But it was not merely her beauty that ensnared him; it was the intensity of purpose emanating from her as she floated through the throng, scanning the walls, eyes darting into alcoves where secrets lay hidden, the contrast of her poised demeanor against the chaos around her piqued his curiosity. He felt the urge to draw nearer, an instinct to discover what she sought amid the frivolity. “What are you doing?” Bash called out, unable to contain his intrigue. “Something captivating, I hope,” Damon chimed in, the exasperation evident in his tone. “I don’t know yet, but I’m looking forward to finding out,” Bash countered, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he quickened his pace to keep up with Anastasia. She slipped through a small doorway, leaving the ballroom behind, and in that moment, Bash’s heart quickened, fully aware that he was about to step into an experience far more thrilling than the suffocating cycle of socialite responsibilities. This soiree had just transformed into a hunt, and Bash would not let this chance slip away.