### Chapter 10 **Xander** My brothers loom at the entrance to the Vault, draped in their dark cloaks, the fabric swallowing their figures in shadows. The hoods hang loosely down their backs, offering little more than glimpses of their hardened faces, each one etched with secrets and scars of our twisted legacy. The Everette family has watched over the Order of Saints for over a century, and beneath the hulled stone of the Everette Hotel lies the Vault—untouched and unyielding, its cold surface an echo of the past and a reminder of the weight we carry. Constructed in the 1800s, this chamber was a replica of what our forebears had left behind in London—a sanctuary of tradition, built on the bones of loyalty. As I step closer, I can feel the power of that tradition, both binding and suffocating. “About time you showed up to one of these,” Bash mutters casually, leaning against the unforgiving stone wall. “I've been busy.” The words slip from my lips, but they mask a truth unspoken—I've been running from Boston, lost in my hunt, neglecting my responsibilities as a Lord of the Order. “Busy, huh?” Bash’s smirk digs at my resolve, and I can feel my teeth grind together to contain my frustration. He’s the one who knows the full scope of my obsession, and I wouldn’t put it past him to let it slip. I shoot him a glare and jab my elbow into his side. He lets out an involuntary grunt, which morphs into a chuckle, unfazed by my aggression. Damon stands by, an immovable presence, the eldest of us—our anchor. He narrows his eyes at me and scowls. “Fuck, you look like shit.” “Can’t say I disagree,” Bash adds, chuckling. I swipe a hand down my face, the weight of my predicament settling more heavily on my shoulders. “Let’s just get this over with. I have more pressing matters.” “Pressing matters, huh? Like searching for your girl?” Matthias, the second eldest, raises an eyebrow, that knowing look exchanging between him and Damon. Bastards. They’ve put the pieces together, and that’s exactly why I’ve kept my distance since that night with Dahlia. “I told you he’s obsessed,” Bash states with a teasing note, the cockiness in his tone sharp enough to cut. “Fuck off.” I turn my gaze away sharply. “It’s not like you were any better.” “He’s got a point,” Damon interjects, his tone even, assessing. He shakes his head. “So why do you look as if a bus ran you over?” My voice dips into a low growl. “Because she fucking disappeared.” Matthias lifts an eyebrow, incredulity sparking in his expression. “You’ve been using the full force of the Order, and you still can’t find her?” “Damn…that’s rough.” Bash’s face betrays a flicker of concern, but I’m too lost in my fury and frustration to care. Without thinking, my fist slams into Bash’s face, and his head snaps back as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. Yet, he wears a twisted grin, licking the blood off his lower lip as it drips, a testament to our rough brotherly love. “Feel better?” he smirks. “What do you think?” The impact was satisfying but not nearly enough to quell the storm brewing inside me. “Let’s finish this ceremony, and then I’ll spar with you,” Damon offers, glancing at me, his gaze piercing. “You need a clear head if you’re going to find her.” He’s not wrong. The thought of battling with him looms enticingly—self-destruction in a way that might grant me clarity. “Fine.” Bash claps his hands, excitement radiating from him. “Fuck yeah!” Damon lowers his gold wolf mask, the signal that it’s time to step into the darkness that awaits us. I pull my own mask into place, and with a swift motion, I tug the hood of my cloak over my head, allowing the shadows to envelop me completely. Here, I’m someone else, someone who can command silence and respect. Being a Lord of the Order of Saints provides me leverage, but these ceremonies are always steeped in drama. As I move forward, men in black robes form two lines, their silver masks glinting in the flickering lantern light. The atmosphere shifts with Damon’s approach; the fabric of our authority rustles, and the gathered bodies bow low, their movements synchronized in a dance of submission. Behind him, I walk flanked by Matthias and Bash, each step echoing off the cold stone walls of the Vault. It feels more like a tomb than a chamber, with the marble and tile closing in on us, shadows creeping where the candlelight fails to illuminate. The weight of my cloak bears down on me, but discomfort becomes a distant thought compared to the fire raging within. The men before us—Saints from the twenty-six ruling families—kneel in reverence. Power, wealth, lineage—all bow at this moment, recognizing the hierarchy bred into our bones. Behind them, the Unsainted crouch low, their foreheads just brushing the stone floor, desperate initiates hoping to someday climb this twisted ladder of power. Four thrones await at the top of the dais—three behind Damon’s, and as he settles into his, we follow suit, lowering ourselves onto the hard wooden seats. The Saints and Unsainted remain prostrate, living testaments to centuries of unyielding tradition. But my mind drifts, breaking free from this ceremonial façade and landing on her. Dahlia. Even amidst all this power, with an empire literally kneeling at my feet, she is the only one clawing through the fog of my thoughts. Damon leans forward, his mask glinting ominously in the dim light as he delivers the words everyone anticipates. “You may rise.” The sound of chairs scraping against stone fills my ears, but I'm oblivious. Lori, what is she doing now? Who’s with her? My grip tightens around the armrest, the wood biting into my palm as rage ignites within me, a wildfire of jealousy igniting at the thought of her laughing with another man, tilting her head as she once did for just me. My vision blurs as darkness encroaches at the edges. She’s mine. Mine to protect, mine to possess until she screams my name in rapture. Anyone else who dares lay a hand on her will wish for a swift end to their life. Sweat trickles down my neck, dampening my back. The shirt I'd once donned is long shed, leaving me bare-chested, fists taped, eyes locked intently on Damon. He smirks, even with the fresh cut beneath his eye. Misty will definitely have my head over that one. Each punch, each slam into the mat extracts the boiling tension building inside me. Damon comes in fast, his fist grazing my cheekbone. I swing for a takedown, but he’s anticipated my move, evading and sweeping my legs out from under me. The mat slams hard against my back, knocking the breath from my lungs as he flips me, his knee digging deep into my spine, my wrists caught in an iron grip. “Tap out.” “Fuck no.” The defiance sharpens my voice, low and guttural. His weight increases, pressing down harder. Pain radiates through my back, climbing into my neck until white-hot agony sears my vision. “Tap out.” This bastard… My hands are trapped, no escape in sight. The words burn in my throat. “I yield.” Damon releases me, standing in a single fluid motion as if we hadn’t just battled for hours. He offers a hand, but I remain on the mat, flipping over to stare at the rough-hewn ceiling above. I draw a ragged breath, my lungs raw with exertion while Bash cheers from the corner, a mocking grin plastered on his face. “You lasted longer than I thought!” “Like you could do better,” I mutter, closing my eyes, exhaustion pulling me downward. For a moment, I consider dragging him into this, but the reality is clear—in my current state, he’d have me on the mats before first blood was drawn. Not worth the effort. I groan, ready to concede defeat to the unforgiving mat when my phone buzzes from the jacket draped across the ropes. Adrenaline races through me as I bolt upright, every ache forgotten. A message blinks on the screen from the investigator I hired. My heart races, anticipation and dread intertwining. **Found her, but you’re not going to like it.**