Chapter 10
Xander
All three of my brothers wait at the entrance to the Vault, cloaked in black. Their hoods hang loose down their backs, shadows cutting hard across their faces.
The Everette family has ruled the Order of Saints for more than a century.
The Vault lies beneath the Everette Hotel. Aside from electricity, nothing has been touched. The stone carries the same cold weight it did the day it was carved.
The Order crossed from London in the 1800s and built these chambers to mirror what they had left behind.
Tradition laid the foundation. Tradition keeps it alive. And under us, the tradition will never fall.
“About time you showed up to one of these.” Bash leans against the stone wall.
“I’ve been busy.” I have, though really, I’ve been avoiding Boston. Too focused on my hunt. Ignoring the fact that I’ve been slacking as one of the Lords of the Order of Saints.
“Mhmm. Busy.” Bash’s look digs at me, and I grind my teeth to keep from knocking it off his face. He’s the only one of my brothers who knows the full extent of what I’ve been doing, and the one most likely to open his mouth about it.
I narrow my eyes and drive an elbow into his side. He grunts upon impact, but it turns into a soft chuckle.
Damon ignores us. As the eldest, he practically raised us. Bash and I brawling never fazed him. He studies my face, mouth twisting into a scowl. “Fuck, you look like shit.”
“That’s what I said,” Bash adds.
I drag a hand down my face. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got things to take care of.”
“Things…huh, things like finding your girl?” Matthias, the second eldest, throws me a knowing look and shares it with Damon. Assholes. They’ve already figured it out.
This is exactly why I’ve stayed away since that night with Dahlia. For all their power and menace, my brothers are the nosiest bastards alive.
“I told you he’s obsessed,” Bash says, cocky as ever.
“Fuck off.” I look away. “Like you were any better.”
“He’s got a point,” Damon mutters, still sizing me up. His verdict comes with a shake of his head. “So why do you look like you’ve been run over by a bus?”
My voice drops into a growl. “Because she fucking disappeared.”
Matthias lifts a brow. “You’ve been using the full force of the Order and still can’t find her?”
“Damn…that’s rough.”
My fist slams into Bash. His head whips back, and when he looks at me again, blood streaks the corner of his mouth. He smirks as he licks the blood from his lower lip.
“Feel better?”
“What do you think?” The hit helped, but it’s nowhere near enough.
“Let’s finish this, and then I’ll spar with you,” Damon says. “You need a clear head if you’re going to find her.”
He’s right. And I know full well Damon can beat the shit out of me, which might be exactly what I need. “Fine.”
Bash claps his hands, a grin spreading across his face. “Fuck yeah.”
Damon lowers his gold wolf mask to cover half his face, signaling that it’s time to go.
I pull my own mask into place and raise the hood of my cloak until darkness swallows me whole. The familiar weight settles over me, numbing my thoughts. Here, I’m untouchable, someone who doesn’t get questioned.
Being a Lord of the Order of Saints gives me leverage to run my businesses. But the ceremonies? Always dramatic as fuck.
Men in black robes form two solid lines along the aisle, silver masks catching the lantern light. The air shifts when Damon steps forward. The scrape of fabric follows, dozens of bodies bowing low in perfect rhythm.
I follow behind him with Matthias and Bash, every footstep echoing in the cavern. The Vault stretches out around us, more like a tomb than a chamber. Marble and tile walls brace the low ceiling, shadows clinging to it where the candlelight doesn’t reach.
My cloak drags against my shoulders, heavy and stiff, the mask biting into the side of my face. It doesn’t matter. Discomfort is nothing. Weakness is worse.
The men closest to us are the Saints, one from each of the twenty-six ruling families. Money, power, bloodlines. All bent at the spine, all here to prove their loyalty.
Behind them, the Unsainted kneel lower, their foreheads nearly brushing stone. Initiates. Not yet worthy of a mask, only permitted to watch and hope their families drag them into the circle one day. For now, they’re shadows.
Four thrones wait at the top of the dais, three set just behind Damon’s. He takes his seat first, before me and my brothers lower ourselves into the hard wooden thrones. The Saints and Unsainted remain on their knees, a living reminder of the hierarchy.
I stare past them, my mind slipping where it shouldn’t. Not on the bowing men. Not on the centuries of tradition.
On her.
Dahlia.
Even surrounded by power, even with an empire kneeling at my feet, she’s the only thing clawing through me.
Damon leans forward, gold mask flashing in the light, and speaks the words they’re waiting for.
“You may rise.”
Chairs scrape. Robes shift. I don’t hear any of it.
Dahlia.
What the fuck is she doing right now? Who’s with her?
My grip crushes the armrest, wood cutting into my palm. Rage scorches my chest at the thought of her laughing at some faceless man, tilting her head the way she once did for me. My vision blurs black at the edges.
She’s mine. Mine to guard. Mine to shatter with my touch until she’s screaming my name.
Anyone else who lays a hand on her won’t live long enough to regret it.
Sweat runs down my neck and soaks my back. My shirt is long gone, fists taped, eyes locked on Damon. He smirks at me, even with the fresh cut split beneath his eye. Misty will kill me for that one.
Each punch, each slam into the mat, drags the tension out of me. Damon comes in fast, his fist grazing my cheekbone.
I swing for the takedown, but he baited me, drawing me in close before sweeping my legs out from under me. The mat knocks the air from my lungs, and before I can recover, he flips me, his knee digging into my spine, my wrists crushed in his grip.
“Tap out.”
“Fuck no.” My voice is low, guttural. His knee grinds harder.
Pain radiates through my back, climbing into my neck until white heat sears my vision.
“Tap out.”
This bastard. My hands are pinned, no way out. The words burn on my tongue.
“I yield.”
Damon lets go and gets to his feet like we haven’t been at it for two hours. He holds a hand out, but I stay down, flip over on the mat, and stare at the ceiling.
I suck in a breath, lungs raw, while Bash heckles from the corner. “You lasted longer than I thought,” he calls, grinning like an idiot.
“Like you could do better,” I mutter, closing my eyes.
For half a second, I think about calling him in. In this shape, he would have me laid out before the first round ended. Not worth it.
I groan, ready to accept my fate of becoming one with the mat, when my phone buzzes from where I left it in my jacket draped across the ropes.
Adrenaline jolts through me. I haul myself up and grab it, every ache forgotten.
A message from the investigator I hired waits on the screen. My stomach drops as my pulse hammers.
Found her, but you’re not going to like it.