Chapter 41
The rolling hills near Athton were bathed in golden sunlight, the crisp air carrying the scent of wildflowers. Isabella Sinclair and Alexander Kingsley worked in comfortable silence, packing dried bamboo shoots into his wheelchair. It was a rare moment of peace, undisturbed by the chaos of their lives.
“We should head back,” Isabella murmured, gripping the handles of the wheelchair.
Then—her body tensed.
Years of training had sharpened her instincts to a razor’s edge. Without hesitation, she shoved the wheelchair forward, shielding Alexander as a figure clad in black emerged from the trees, gun aimed directly at him.
“Don’t move, Kingsley,” the assassin sneered. “You’ve pissed off the wrong people.”
The gun fired—but Isabella was faster. A sharp twist of her wrist sent the weapon clattering to the ground.
“Go!” she barked, adrenaline surging through her veins.
The assassin was no amateur. His movements were fluid, calculated—a professional killer. Isabella barely had time to process it before he lunged again, a dagger flashing from his boot.
She braced for impact, ready to take the hit—
Then Alexander’s hand clamped around the assassin’s wrist.
Isabella’s breath caught.
Because Alexander Kingsley—supposedly bound to his wheelchair—stood tall, his grip unyielding.
“Your legs—” she blurted.
His lips curled into a cold smirk. “Surprise.”
The assassin’s eyes widened. He had been misled. Alexander’s disability had been a ruse all along.
“Let’s finish this,” Alexander growled.
The fight erupted in a blur of motion. Rain began to fall, slicking the ground, but it didn’t slow them. Isabella struck high—Alexander countered low. Their movements were seamless, as if they’d fought side by side for years.
The assassin, desperate, aimed for Alexander’s face.
“Who sent you?” Alexander demanded, deflecting the blow.
The man spat blood. “Go to hell.”
Alexander’s mind raced. Someone with deep pockets and deeper grudges—his half-siblings, perhaps. Or his stepbrother, Damian Kingsley, who had tried to ruin him before.
Isabella didn’t wait for answers. She drove her knee into the assassin’s gut, flipping him onto his back. A sickening crack echoed as her hand struck his arm—bone splintered, flesh tore.
The assassin howled, writhing as blood soaked the earth.
Rain washed over them, diluting the metallic tang in the air.
Isabella exhaled, her gaze flickering to Alexander. His shirt clung to his torso, revealing the hard planes of muscle beneath. His stance was steady, powerful.
One word burned in her mind:
Liar.
