Chapter 9

The memory faded, leaving emptiness. Derek lit a cigarette, smoke curling as Hannah's bright smile flashed in his mind. He called his assistant. "Get a new headstone for Hannah's mom."

He hung up, itching to tell Hannah, to see her cry with relief, gratitude, maybe even love. But pride stopped him. He had his assistant pass on the message.

Soon, the assistant called back. "Derek, Hannah's gone dark."

His stomach dropped. "What do you mean? Did you check everywhere?"

"She's blocked everyone. We searched her usual spots, even the cemetery. Nothing. Looks like she left the pack."

A crash thundered in Derek's chest, like something collapsed. He bombarded Hannah with calls and texts, only to find she'd blocked him. He sped to the villa, heart pounding. Every trace of her—slippers, cup, clothes—gone. Her room was dusty, abandoned. In the trash, he found scraps of an old photo of them as pups, scribbled with her handwriting: Hannah and Derek, safe forever.

Her heartfelt wish, torn up and discarded. His pulse skipped, but he told himself she was just sulking. She'd come crawling back. Hannah always obeyed him—she had to.

For a week, he stayed at the old den, jumping at every creak of the door, hoping it was her. It was always a servant or Charles. His heart swung between hope and dread, never settling.

Brittany showed up, pouting. "Derek, why haven't we gone out lately?"

It hit him—he was letting Hannah pull his strings. Furious, he handed her disappearance to his assistant and dove back into his carefree life. For a month, he and Brittany partied hard. Bars became their den, liquor their water, gambling their game. They lived upside-down, falling deeper into haze.

But Hannah haunted him. Her smile, her comfort, her stubborn spark. He wanted her—wanted to break her, make her admit she still loved him. If longing had a sound, it'd deafen him.

By the third month of her absence, Derek cracked. His assistant reported, "Hannah bought tickets to everywhere, and someone's covering her tracks. We can't find her."

Crash—Derek smashed a glass, grabbing the assistant's collar. "I don't care what it takes or how much it costs—find her! If you don't, you're done in Belmor Town!"

The assistant trembled, lips quivering. "But…" He wanted to say Derek's reach didn't extend other packs, but the murder in Derek's eyes silenced him. "Yes, sir."

Alone in his study, Derek smoked through a pack, wondering when he and Hannah went wrong. Probably the day Brittany returned. He threw her a welcome party, deliberately excluding Hannah to avoid drama. That night, Brittany asked, "Derek, have you forgotten how your mom died? You're with her killer's pup—don't you care about her spirit? Your dad backed a homewrecker. You gonna do the same to me?"

Her words crawled under his skin, gnawing at him. Back at the den, Hannah confronted him. "Why'd you throw Brittany a party behind my back?" She was jealous—a thrill he once craved. But that night, he pushed her away, snapping, "Do I need your permission to throw a party for my destined mate?"

He'd never forget the hurt in her eyes, the raw disappointment.

"What're you thinking about?" Brittany's voice broke through as she entered the study, wearing a sheer nightgown. She smiled, massaging his shoulders. "Your assistant said you've been in a mood…"

Her words trailed off as she saw his phone screen—a photo of him and Hannah. Her smile froze, voice sharpening. "Derek, what the hell is this?"