**Chapter 8** **Xander** Two months. That’s how long it’s been since she disappeared from my life, leaving me trapped in a hell of uncertainty and desperation. Two agonizing months of searching for the woman I chose to make my wife. She slipped away like a phantom, leaving behind no trace—no ID, no records, and no digital footprint—as if she had never existed at all. I sit in my office, the weight of a watch on my wrist worth more than most men earn in a year, yet it offers no comfort against the relentless march of time I cannot control. My fingers thread through my disheveled hair, elbows digging into the polished surface of my desk, as I drown in a silence heavy enough to stifle. I’ve conquered cities, built empires out of nothing, and transformed millions into billions. I’ve tamed governments and industries, manipulated powerful men like puppets. But here I am, engulfed in a storm of helplessness. None of it matters—the Order, the wealth, or the power—while she roams the streets alone, unprotected, without me. In my desperation, I constructed a sprawling network to hunt her shadow. Hospital alerts echo in my mind, untapped credit flags marked with precision, and facial recognition systems submerged in technology most people don’t even know exist. I’ve hacked, bribed, threatened, and exhausted every resource the Order of Saints could muster. It took little more than a feeble nudge to pry her name from Bradley’s lips—Dahlia Sinclair. The revelation spilled out too easily, desperation etched across his face, as though I held his life in my hands. I barely touched him before the floodgates opened; he revealed everything he knew. Her name. Her habits. But then he insulted her. He called her nothing special, casually shrugging, as though she were merely a fleeting dalliance. In a heartbeat, my fist connected with his face, and by the time my brothers dragged me away, he lay broken on the floor, a pool of blood seeping beneath him. My brothers had saved his life. I’ve buried men for much less. That name—Dahlia—became my lifeline, a way to delve into her past. I thought her trust was her weakness, but the more I unearthed, the more I realized her strength. Reports told a story of survival, resilience—she was anything but soft. Abandoned as a child, her father absent, and her mother a specter in her life, married three times before Dahlia turned six, each union shorter than the last. The police reports shattered my heart. My Dahlia—a girl haunted, alone and afraid before she even understood what ‘abandonment’ meant. Her mother would show up just long enough to avoid losing custody, only to vanish again when a new husband came along. Finally, when a marriage actually lasted, she disappeared completely from Dahlia’s life as if she were nothing more than an inconvenience. It didn’t take long for me to track her down—now married, two daughters, a son—living a comfortable life in the suburbs. Her mother had traded her daughter’s future for a fresh start. The rage bubbling beneath my skin barely simmered; the only thing stopping me from laying waste to that woman’s new life was the singular focus on finding Dahlia. Once she was safe and back in my arms, I would help her unleash the sweet nectar of revenge on the ones who wronged her. In my hands, I held the trail of documents chronicling her life—endless foster homes, none lasting more than a few months, each leaving its own mark. I could feel the scars etched deep within her—a childhood stolen. An elder woman finally took her in, offering a small apartment above a flower shop. They eked out a meager existence; somehow, Dahlia’s grades improved, her attendance stabilized. But that joy was short-lived. Looking back, there was an ambulance bill, a record of her guardian going to the hospital and never returning. A lien on that flower shop suffocated her dreams, leaving my girl with no choice but to sell it. My fists clenched tighter, the anger coursing through me like venom. Why wasn’t I the one there for her? I could have held her together, saved what little she had left. Instead, it was Bradley—he exploited her vulnerability, twisted her fears, and turned her into a puppet for his desires. A vile parasite draining the remnants of her hard-earned money to fund his own pitiful ambitions. He will feel my wrath. I will make him kneel at her feet, begging for mercy he doesn’t deserve. Suddenly, a ping disrupts the silence. A new email. The words “Possible Matches” flicker across the screen. My heart races as I click it open before the second notification can finish chiming. Photos flood the screen—grainy, blurry images: hotel lobbies, dark alleys, bars, parking garages. Women captured mid-step, faces turned toward the camera in those fleeting moments. I work my way through them, heart pounding, anticipation mingled with despair. The first woman glances back. For a split second, hope flares within me—only to extinguish quickly. It isn’t her. The next image churns my stomach; the cheekbones are wrong. I continue clicking—wrong hair, wrong eyes. Over and over, hope spikes and crashes, each failure blurring my vision until I land on the final photo, knowing deep down it’s another disappointment. Not her. It’s never her. The confirmation drags like a blade between my ribs. A low growl escapes my throat, laden with frustration. My hand lunges for the nearest object—a glass paperweight that shatters against the wall with an explosive crack, the sound echoing in the office like a gunshot. Without a knock, the door swings open, and Bash saunters in, an insufferable smirk plastered across his face. His gaze dances over the debris on the floor to the dent now punctuating the wall. “You redecorating?” Age-wise, he’s only eleven months younger, yet we’ve always moved in sync, alongside our older brothers, ruling the Order of Saints together. For him, every victory is a game, and he thrives in its chaos, grinning like a child at Christmas. “Your team’s scared shitless, by the way,” he notes lightly, dropping a folder on my cluttered desk. “They were arguing over who had to bring this in.” I refuse to meet his gaze, my focus instead locked on the dead-end files—the photographs, the reports, a maddening array of nothingness. The tension tightens my jaw, gnawing at my sanity. “Were they supposed to be working on this?” he probes, leaning against the desk. “You’ve got them chasing ghosts. Whatever happened to the meticulous mogul I know? Money doesn’t stack itself, you know.” My glare snaps up to meet his, his smirk only deepening in response. That growl rises again, simmering beneath the surface before I’m surging to my feet, grabbing Bash by the collar and yanking him forward. The desk rattles beneath the force of my grip, the edge digging sharply into his hips. He grunts but remains unfazed, that infuriating grin unblemished. “You look like shit,” he remarks, amusement dripping from his voice. “When was the last time you slept?” “I’ll sleep when I find her.” I tighten my grip, knuckles digging into his chest. The coil of anxiety within me winds tighter with every passing moment. What if she’s hurt? What if— No. I shove that thought into the darkest corner of my mind and push Bash back, hard enough that he stumbles momentarily before regaining his balance. “Maybe it’s time you accepted she’s gone,” Bash suggests, his tone surprisingly easy. The words burn like acid through my veins. I fixate on him, heat pooling in my chest. “If Anastasia vanished without a trace, what would you do?” For the first time, the smirk fades, replaced by a resolute determination. “I’d tear apart every street, every building, and every man in my path until she was right back where she belonged.” Exactly. “Now you understand,” I shoot back, my voice slicing like a blade. “She’s mine. I won’t stop until I find her, no matter how long it takes.” I drop back into my chair, its leather creaking under me. Elbows land heavily on the desk, fingers dragging down my face in fatigue. The gnawing exhaustion doesn’t dull the edge of her absence. “I’m worried about her,” I admit, the words rough against my throat, dragging their way out. For a fleeting moment, Bash’s expression softens. “You’ll find her.” A dark, hollow laugh bursts forth from me, humorless. “I know I will. And when I do, I swear no one else will ever touch her again.” Bash chuckles, but then his tone sharpens. “I’m glad you found her. I was beginning to think your cold heart would always stand in your way. Turns out you’re just like the rest of your brothers.” “Just like them?” I challenge. “Yeah. You just needed the right girl.” A year ago—hell, even three months ago—I would have scoffed. I watched my brothers lose themselves to obsession, bending their formidable wills for the women they loved. I thought I was immune; that nothing could ever matter more than power. Sex was a mere obligation, a fleeting encounter quickly forgotten—a transaction devoid of meaning. Bash shakes his head, smirking as he continues, “You’re just as much of a possessive psycho as the rest of us.” “Worse.” The conviction in my voice is unwavering. “Once I get my hands on her, she’ll learn precisely how much I claim her.” Straightening up, Bash’s grin morphs into a warning. “Careful—she might just become my future sister.” I let his words settle, savoring the taste of ownership they evoke within me. A promise, a claim—I relish the sound. A smile curls my lips. “Good. Then you know I’ll never let her go.”