“Where is she?”

The question hung flat and precise in the air. No rise in tone, no warmth, and absolutely no trace of patience despite the calm way Xander delivered it.

He stood in the doorway, still wearing the charcoal wool trousers and white linen shirt he’d changed into after practice. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing veined, powerful forearms.

Alexander Kane II looked up from the leather-bound ledger on his desk and met his son’s gaze. There was no surprise in the older man’s eyes,

“Your stepsister?” He asked, the word laced with deliberate condescension. “She called about an hour ago. Left campus early, said she wasn’t feeling well. Unfortunately, the car broke down on the way home, and she had it towed to a shop.”

Xander’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the heavy door handle. The car. One of the fleet he had personally chosen for her after their parents’ marriage. Broken down.

He had known the moment he passed her last lecture hall and found it empty. The professor had still been packing up, the room half-lit and echoing, but there was no sign of her notebook or the worn canvas bag. She was supposed to be there when he arrived. She was always there on Thursdays.

He had felt it the instant he stepped into the building and found no trace of her. That first cold thread of irritation tightening in his chest. Not anger. The Kanes didn’t get angry. Anger was loud and sloppy. This was quieter. Sharper.

And now this.

A tracker.

The thought snapped into place in his methodical mind with the finality of a verdict. Yes, a tracker.

For a tormentor, Xander had been remarkably patient these past few months, allowing her the illusion of independence because the slow erosion of it was part of the pleasure.

He turned without another word to his father and strode back through the house, footsteps measured against the marble.

The drive back toward the city was automatic, his mind already mapping the route she was most likely to have taken from campus to the estate. He knew she preferred the old river road, the one that wound through the smaller parishes where the live oaks arched overhead like a tunnel. There were three auto shops along that stretch that still accepted walk-ins.

He started with the first.

The neon sign flickered weakly against the gathering dark, Xander didn’t speak; he simply scanned the bays. Two sedans but no sign of the black Mercedes GLC he had assigned her.

The second shop was busier, floodlights harsh against the downpour. A tow truck idled in the lot… nothing.

The third shop sat on the edge of a crumbling industrial stretch, the kind of place that serviced delivery vans. Under the overhang of the open bay, was the Mercedes.

He saw her standing near the front counter, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Mid-thirties, maybe, with a day’s stubble and a smile that thought it was charming. But then she smiled… One of those soft, polite smiles… No. No. No

He parked the Aston directly in front of the bay doors, he stepped out, the fine mist soaking through his shirt as he crossed the concrete in long strides. The mechanic noticed him first and froze mid-sentence. “Evening.” Xander said, voice smooth. His gaze flicked to the name stitched on the coveralls. “Roussel, I take it?”

The mechanic straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, that’s me. Just finishing the diagnostic” His eyes drifted to the Aston. “You need me to take a look at yours?” Xane; “I’m here because my stepsister’s car broke down. Take care of what needs to be done and send the bill to the Kane estate.” Roussel blinked, recognition dawning. As in the Kanes, the family that owned half the ports from here to the Gulf. “We can have it ready day after tomorrow- “Tomorrow morning.” Xander corrected mildly. Only then did he turn to her.

Ignoring the man entirely, Xander leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Running off alone.” He murmured “Letting strangers get too close. Bold. Really bold. We’re going to have a conversation when we get home.”

He pulled back.

“Get in the car.”