Chapter 217
Ethan Blackwood let out a mocking scoff, his body pressed firmly against the wall, keeping a safe distance from the window.
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled two knives from behind his waist, the blades embedding themselves inches from Alexander Kingsley and Ethan’s feet.
“Watching you high-society types squirm is the best entertainment I’ve had in years,” Darren Whitlock sneered, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk.
“Still worried about those two women? Prove you’re serious. Stab yourselves in the leg—show me some real sincerity.”
His fingers tightened around the knife pressed against the rope.
“Or else…” He applied pressure, the fibers straining. One more push, and it would snap.
Sophia Kensington’s scream pierced the air.
She was certain the rope was about to give way.
“Ethan, help me! Please!” Her frantic pleas only fueled Darren’s twisted amusement.
“Shut up!” Darren barked, his voice laced with venom.
Then, his gaze flicked back to the two men, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“If you don’t do as I say, you’ll be fishing their boiled corpses out of that pot.” His eyes darted between Ethan and Alexander, relishing their distress. There was something deeply satisfying about watching these untouchable men crumble beneath him.
Ethan’s eyes locked onto the knives.
“Stop playing games. If it’s money you want, name your price!” His voice cracked, raw with fear for Sophia’s life.
Yet, despite the life-or-death stakes, Ethan’s attention kept drifting toward Isabella Sinclair.
Unlike Sophia, who had dissolved into hysterics, Isabella stood perfectly still, eerily composed.
Ethan liked to believe he loved Sophia, but when faced with the choice of driving a blade into his own flesh, he hesitated—a hesitation he couldn’t explain.
Darren noticed, of course.
His smirk deepened.
“So, the great Ethan Blackwood is scared after all. What’s it gonna be? Or should I send both these pretty ladies straight to hell?” Without waiting for an answer, Darren began sawing at the rope.
“Stop.” Alexander’s voice cut through the tension.
“I’ll do it.”
Without hesitation, Alexander bent down, picked up the knife, and plunged it into his thigh.
Blood welled instantly. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, but his expression remained unreadable.
Memories flashed—his younger brother, killed by the mafia. The past and present blurred, but one thing was clear: he wouldn’t let Isabella get hurt. Not again.
Pain was nothing if it meant keeping her safe.
“Alexander…” Isabella’s voice trembled slightly, her eyes wide with disbelief.
She stared at him—the man in the wheelchair, his dark hair damp with sweat, his gaze unwavering. His eyes, intense as ever, seemed to say, Don’t worry.
Ethan froze, momentarily stunned. The sight of blood, Sophia’s tear-filled eyes pleading with him, pushed him to his breaking point.
Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the second knife and drove it into his own leg.
“Happy now?” Ethan rasped, clutching the wound as agony seared through him. His face paled, his body trembling, but he refused to scream, biting back the pain.
“Ethan!” Sophia’s desperate sobs echoed through the room.
Isabella exhaled slowly, her mind racing.
Darren was volatile, but he wasn’t stupid. The way he used the wall for cover, shielding himself from any unseen threat, proved he was calculating.
Her plan to stall for the sniper had failed.
She needed a new angle—something to exploit his weakness.
And men like Darren? Their ego was always their downfall.
Lowering her head, Isabella let out a shuddering sigh, her voice laced with feigned regret.
“Darren… I know I was wrong. We grew up together. Can’t you let this go, just this once?” Her face twisted into genuine fear. “The oil’s so hot… I’m scared. Please… let me go. I’ll do whatever you want, right here, in front of everyone. I swear.”
A triumphant grin spread across Darren’s face, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.
“Finally scared, huh?” he sneered, savoring every word.
The bitterness he’d carried since the orphanage—the humiliation of being outsmarted by the girl he’d once tormented—now twisted into something darker.
Hearing her beg scratched that deep, festering itch for revenge.
“Took you long enough,” he taunted. “All that pride, and now you’re groveling at my feet. Pathetic. Still doing it for your lover, huh? Feeling sorry for him?”
His voice dripped with venom, each word laced with fury.
“Fine. I’ll save you for last. But first…” His rage eclipsed his caution. “You cut off my finger. Now it’s your turn.”
Muttering to himself, he grabbed a hammer from the floor.
“No, cutting it off would be too quick. I’ll crush them. One by one.”
But just as his fingers closed around the handle—
Alexander rose from his wheelchair.
Ethan’s breath caught.
His mind reeled.
Wasn’t Alexander supposed to be crippled?
