Chapter 169
The cold metal of the car hood pressed against Isabella’s chest as she was pinned down, her wrists bound tightly behind her back. The red stilettos she wore only accentuated the length of her legs, making her an alluring sight—one that would have captivated any man under different circumstances.
Vincent Blackwell smirked as he approached, his gaze raking over her with predatory intent. “Damn, you’re something else,” he drawled, his voice thick with lust. “Let’s see how beautiful you look when I’m through with you.”
His fingers twitched, eager to grab her, but the blinding glare of the headlights created a split-second distraction.
It was all Isabella needed.
With a sharp twist, she wrenched her hands free from the restraints. Her eyes turned glacial, her voice a lethal whisper. “Too bad you’re too repulsive for my taste.” She tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a cold smile. “You don’t deserve to live.”
Before Vincent could react, she spun and drove her stiletto into his groin with brutal precision. The sharp heel pierced deep, and blood gushed between his legs as a guttural scream tore from his throat.
“Ahhh! You bitch—I’ll kill you!” he howled, doubling over in agony.
But Isabella wasn’t done.
She swung her leg again, the bloodied heel now a deadly weapon.
Crack.
The sickening sound of bone breaking echoed through the night. His neck snapped under the force of her kick, and his body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Inside the cabin, chaos erupted.
“You made a fatal mistake touching her,” Alexander Kingsley’s voice cut through the noise, icy and controlled, though fury burned in his eyes. His muscles tensed as he sliced through the ropes binding him with a shard of broken glass.
In one fluid motion, he grabbed the chair he’d been tied to and swung it with devastating force.
Crash!
The wood splintered against Lucas Mendoza’s skull, blood smearing the tattoos on his neck. Lucas staggered, disoriented, but Alexander didn’t give him a chance to recover. A brutal punch to the gut sent him crashing to the floor, gasping for air.
“You—you were faking it this whole time?” Lucas wheezed, clutching his stomach in disbelief.
The man who had seemed subdued moments ago was now a storm of violence.
Alexander wasn’t finished.
As Lucas opened his mouth to call for help, Alexander was already looming over him, gripping a jagged piece of the broken chair.
“Wait—you can’t be serious—” Lucas’s face paled, but his plea was cut short as Alexander drove the sharp wood into his chest.
Blood sprayed across the floor, splattering Alexander’s face.
“You should have died a long time ago,” he murmured, his voice chillingly calm.
There was no hesitation. No remorse.
Only death.
Alexander wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, stepping over Lucas’s body as if it were nothing.
Outside, his shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw Isabella standing unharmed.
“Let’s go.”
They moved in perfect sync, no words needed. The violence had taken mere minutes—sharp, efficient, like a deadly dance.
But the noise had drawn attention.
The remaining men were closing in, weapons drawn, their expressions uneasy.
Isabella quickly assessed the situation and grabbed Alexander’s hand. “They’ve got guns. We can’t take them head-on.”
Without hesitation, they bolted toward the dark forest, the cold night swallowing them whole as the wind howled in their ears.
