“I have a niece,” Alexander began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
“She’s brilliant and full of life, though she’s on the autism spectrum. Pottery is her world.”
Isabella studied the rare flicker of warmth in Alexander’s usually icy gaze as he spoke of his niece. It was a startling glimpse of vulnerability from a man notorious for his ruthlessness, and it unsettled her in ways she couldn’t quite define. As someone who had grown up alone, she found herself unexpectedly relating to this unexpected softness in him.
“I’ve seen your skill firsthand, Miss Sinclair,” Alexander continued, his tone shifting back to its usual detached precision, as if discussing a corporate merger rather than a personal favor. “I want you to teach her. In exchange, I can provide you with resources you wouldn’t otherwise have access to.” His lips curved into a calculated smile. “Even someone as capable as you could benefit from certain… official channels, don’t you think?”
Isabella arched a brow. The Kingsley family’s influence was undeniable—both in business and beyond. Their backing could change everything for her.
With a dry laugh, she crossed her arms. “So this is your way of bargaining for your life?”
“Not quite.” Alexander’s gaze sharpened, piercing through her defenses. “You never intended to kill me. If you had, you wouldn’t have hesitated. That moment of doubt told me everything I needed to know.” He leaned forward slightly. “Since we’re both cautious by nature, why not make this mutually beneficial?”
“You really don’t know when to quit, do you? Typical businessman,” Isabella remarked, though her tone carried a grudging respect.
In one swift motion, he snatched the blade from her grip and tore the bandages from her hand with practiced ease. “Consider this a gesture of goodwill,” he said, nodding at her wound.
Isabella handed him a small vial, and Alexander raised an incredulous brow. Did this woman carry an entire apothecary with her?
“You have an army at your disposal. Of course you don’t need to be prepared,” she said with a smirk. “But for people like me? It’s survival.”
“Open your mouth,” she ordered, tipping a crimson pill between his lips as she dressed his wound. Her movements were precise, almost eerily intuitive, as if she could anticipate his every reaction.
Alexander swallowed reflexively. “What was that?”
“Poison,” she said, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.
He stiffened.
Isabella laughed softly at his reaction as she packed away her supplies. “An old saying, Mr. Kingsley—’trust, but verify.’ How do I know your niece even exists? Or that your men won’t come after me the second we’re out of here?” She tilted her head. “Consider it insurance.”
Alexander exhaled, a slow, amused grin spreading across his face. “So the poison is to ensure I keep my word?”
“Exactly. Don’t worry—I have the antidote.”
He leaned back, studying her with newfound fascination. “Now that I’m properly poisoned, perhaps you’ll tell me—who are you?”
She was unlike anyone he’d ever met. Cold, calculating, yet with an edge that was almost feral. Carrying medical supplies was practical, but poison? That spoke of a different kind of survival instinct.
No one had ever dared to manipulate him like this. And yet, instead of anger, he felt something else entirely—a rush of adrenaline, a thrill that even the most dangerous ventures couldn’t rival.
It was intoxicating.
