Chapter 182
Isabella slipped through the shadowed hallway, each cautious step leading her deeper into the suffocating embrace of the hidden chamber.
The kind of darkness that didn’t just obscure—it consumed.
Before she could even think of retreating, the deliberate rhythm of approaching footsteps resonated through the space, steady and unhurried, like the measured ticking of a predator’s patience.
Someone else had entered the forbidden room.
Fantastic. Just what I needed.
This is a disaster.
Isabella quickly ducked into the nearest wardrobe, pressing herself against the back panel.
“I told you to extract every piece of information from those men. If the last one won’t talk, silence him permanently. I won’t tolerate your incompetence spilling into my affairs.”
Alexander’s deep, commanding voice filled the room just as dim amber lights flickered to life, casting eerie silhouettes along the walls.
She had never expected to stumble upon him here, of all places.
Peering through the narrow slit in the wardrobe door, she watched as Alexander tugged his shirt off with one hand, revealing the sculpted planes of his back, the taut muscles shifting beneath his skin.
But it wasn’t his physique that sent shock rippling through her.
It was the wall behind him.
No dark family secrets, no hidden ledgers—just an array of whips, restraints, and other… unconventional instruments.
Leather cuffs dangled beside wax-sealed candles. A collection of corsets hung like artifacts of some decadent indulgence.
This was a room tailored for desires she had never imagined him possessing.
Wasn’t Alexander supposed to be indifferent to intimacy? He carried himself with icy detachment, a man who seemed above such… unrestrained tastes.
Isabella’s mind spun.
This was the Kingsley family’s forbidden chamber, a place barred from outsiders—yet it housed this.
Before she could process it further, Alexander discarded his shirt entirely, settling onto a nearby chaise. His reflection stared back from a full-length mirror as he methodically tended to a wound on his abdomen.
His phone lay beside him, speaker on, voices reporting in rapid succession—but his attention was fractured.
Even from her hiding spot, Isabella could hear the lethal chill in his tone.
“Fail me again, and don’t expect leniency.”
There was no warmth. Only a razor-sharp edge that promised retribution.
“I don’t tolerate incompetence.”
This wasn’t the composed Alexander she knew. This was a man whose words dripped with ruthless precision.
“And for the ones who survived the flaying—if any still breathe, carve them apart. Slowly.”
His expression didn’t flicker, as though discussing brutality was as mundane as ordering dinner.
“They brought this upon themselves.”
Isabella’s stomach twisted.
She had known that surviving in their world required a certain ruthlessness—but reconciling this version of Alexander with the man she’d once known was jarring.
The dissonance between the two was staggering.
Listening to him calmly dictate torture methods as if discussing stock portfolios made her skin crawl.
This wasn’t new to him.
When Alexander spoke to his subordinates, his authority was absolute, pressing down like an executioner’s blade. No wonder whispers painted him as volatile—a man who could shift from icy control to lethal fury in a heartbeat.
But that wasn’t what unsettled her most.
It was the wall.
Her gaze sharpened, studying the display. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the materials unmistakably high-end—yet she’d never have guessed his inclinations leaned so… unorthodox.
Meanwhile, Alexander remained oblivious to her presence.
With the practiced ease of someone accustomed to pain, he dabbed antiseptic onto his wound without so much as a flinch.
“Transfer my grandmother to a different facility. The current one has a view, but the staff is negligent. The West Mountain estate will suffice. Set up a private wing there with our own people.”
A hesitant voice crackled through the phone. “But, sir, relocating her might draw attention. The current director won’t take it well.”
Alexander’s expression darkened, a flicker of impatience crossing his features.
“They’re useless. I pay them exorbitantly, and they still fail. I won’t leave her there another day.”
His hand slipped, pressing the alcohol swab too hard. The sting should have elicited a reaction—but all he did was clench his jaw, refusing to betray even a sliver of vulnerability.
Silence stretched before a subdued “Understood, sir” came through.
Tension lingered.
Alexander lifted his head, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. His skin was a canvas of scars—old battles etched into flesh, new wounds still raw.
As he pressed harder, the pain sharpened—but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To her.
When Isabella had tended to his injuries, her raven hair had sometimes brushed his skin, her piercing gaze dissecting him as if she could see through every facade.
Her touch had been clinical, yet unnervingly gentle.
Now, staring at his reflection, it was almost as if her fingers ghosted over his wounds again, numbing the ache with phantom caresses.
Isabella, hidden in the wardrobe, frowned.
Through the slit, she noticed the faint sheen of sweat on Alexander’s back.
Why was he treating his injuries alone? He could summon a private physician in an instant—yet here he was, tending to himself as if trusting anyone else was unthinkable.
…
