Chapter 179
Isabella Sinclair drifted in and out of consciousness, the faint sensation of a cool, damp cloth brushing against her fevered skin pulling her briefly from the depths of exhaustion.
“Stay…” she murmured, lost in the haze of a dream—one that dragged her back to the bleakest years of her life, after she’d fled the orphanage.
In the dream, she relived the terror of being kidnapped, the suffocating darkness that swallowed her whole when drugs stole her sight. Every sound had been a threat, every whisper a promise of pain.
Then, from the void, a shadow emerged—a boy, younger than she remembered, carrying her on his back. His face was blurred, but she could feel the strain in his muscles with every step.
“Hey… what’s your name?” she had asked, her voice barely a whisper in her fractured memory.
A pause. Then, the scarred boy answered, “Ethan Blackwood.”
“Alright… I’ll find you one day.”
That memory hadn’t surfaced in years. Her heart, long numbed by the Blackwood family’s cruelty, now ached as if freshly wounded.
Even now, too weak to open her eyes, she sensed someone nearby.
A quiet sigh of relief broke the silence.
“Finally… the fever’s gone.”
The voice—strong, steady—blended with the boy from her dream. For a fleeting moment, they felt like the same person.
Gradually, she realized it wasn’t the shadow of her past but Alexander Kingsley, who had stayed by her side, tirelessly cooling her fever with damp cloths, carefully moistening her cracked lips with water. His attention to every small detail left her with an unfamiliar sensation—safety.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Isabella felt something she had long forgotten—security.
She remembered the countless nights in the Blackwood mansion, lying alone in a cold bed, sick or heartbroken, staring blankly at the moon through her window, burying every emotion deep inside.
Now, warmth lingered beside her…
Before she could dwell on it, exhaustion pulled her under again, dragging her into the depths of sleep.
When she next awoke, she found herself in the Kingsley estate.
Sunlight streamed through the frosted windows, casting a golden glow across the room. The faint scent of roses from the garden drifted in, soothing her senses.
Isabella flexed her fingers, sluggish, and felt the weight of a small hand resting beside hers.
“Amelia…” she whispered, still half-lost in the remnants of sleep.
Beside her, Amelia stirred, her tiny fingers tightening around Isabella’s the moment she realized she was awake. The little girl’s eyes flew open, brimming with tears—pure, unfiltered relief.
“Good girl, Amelia,” Isabella murmured, her voice rough but tender.
It struck her then—Amelia must have been terrified, afraid of losing her just as she had lost her father. Now, that fear melted away in the warmth of Isabella’s waking presence.
Then, she noticed the other figure in the room—Alexander, slumped in his wheelchair beside her bed. Bandages wrapped around his torso, dark circles shadowing his eyes, a testament to the sleepless nights he’d spent watching over her.
Her throat burned too much to speak, but she managed a faint smile, hoping to reassure Amelia, who had stayed by her side through it all.
The slightest movement was enough to rouse Alexander. His eyes snapped open, locking onto hers instantly.
“You’re awake.”
His voice was steady, but the weight of relief in those two words was unmistakable. He noticed her dry lips and immediately reached for the glass of water on the nightstand.
“Don’t speak yet,” he murmured, pressing the glass into her hands. “Drink slowly. It’ll help.”
He pressed the call button, and within moments, James entered.
“James, take Amelia to rest.”
“Of course.”
When James saw Isabella awake, his face lit up with genuine joy.
“Mr. Kingsley, Ms. Sinclair is finally awake. You can relax now—it’s been days since you’ve slept properly. Maybe you should rest too?”
“I know. You can leave now.”
“Then I’ll take Amelia back to her room.”
James grinned, clearly giving them space. As he lifted Amelia into his arms, a pang of sympathy hit him. Since Isabella’s injury, the little girl had become obsessive, refusing to leave her side even in the dead of night.
But now, with Isabella awake, Amelia could finally rest.
Once they were gone, the room fell into a heavy silence.
Alexander’s gaze remained fixed on Isabella, his expression unreadable—but the tension in his clenched fists betrayed the storm raging inside him.
Over the past few days, he had hunted down the assassins, ensured they paid for their betrayal—yet none of it eased the fury burning in his chest.
One wrong move on the shores of the Burned Isles, and Isabella could have been lost forever.
That thought settled over him like a suffocating shadow.
“The infection is under control,” he said finally, voice low. “Are you in pain anywhere else?”
