The man loomed in the shadows, his presence radiating a chilling threat.
Isabella Sinclair didn’t back down, though her fingers flexed subtly—years of training had honed her reflexes to a razor’s edge.
It had been too long since she’d felt this kind of danger.
The quiet life she’d built had nearly erased the memory of it.
Outside, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor.
“Find him! Sombra’s toxin doesn’t last forever. He won’t make it far. Move!”
Isabella’s mind raced.
So, he’s drugged.
As the footsteps faded, the gun pressed against his ribs trembled. His grip weakened, his breath uneven.
“I don’t interfere in other people’s messes,” she said, voice steady despite the cold metal digging into her side. “Tonight never happened. But if you don’t treat that wound soon, you’ll regret it.”
Even in the dark, the metallic tang of blood hung thick in the air.
His response was a low, dangerous growl. “One more word, and you won’t live to see dawn.”
The roughness in his voice betrayed the drugs coursing through him, but the threat was unmistakable.
Isabella smirked. “Oh, I’d love to see you try.”
His fingers twitched, calculating.
Alexander Kingsley fought against the fire in his veins, his vision swimming.
She stood before him, calm as ice, her neck pale and delicate—so easily breakable. Yet she smiled, as if she held the power here.
The toxin was stronger than he’d expected.
Then—a sharp scent of plum cut through the haze.
That split second of clarity was all Isabella needed.
Crack!
Her elbow drove into his ribs. Her hand shot up, twisting his wrist with practiced precision. The gun clattered to the floor.
In a heartbeat, the tables turned.
Now, Isabella held the weapon, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. The barrel gleamed in the dim light as she aimed it at his chest.
Alexander, who had been in control moments ago, now faced a woman whose smile was colder than steel.
“Next time,” she murmured, “think twice before pointing a gun at someone. Accidents happen.”
Her grip was firm—too firm for someone unfamiliar with weapons.
“Drugged and reckless,” she mused. “You’re in worse shape than I thought.”
He had never met a woman like her—one who stared death in the face and laughed.
Alexander didn’t hesitate.
His hand clamped around her elbow. The gun jerked as her arm twisted, and in that fleeting second of hesitation, he struck.
With brutal efficiency, he seized her shoulder, slamming her against the wall.
Isabella tasted blood, but fear was distant. Instead, exhilaration surged through her—a thrill she hadn’t felt in years.
How long had it been since he’d fought with real intent?
Too long.
After three years as the Blackwood family’s obedient puppet, the predator inside him had lain dormant.
But now?
It was awake.
And it hungered.
Without warning, Isabella swung her fist toward his temple—a killing blow.
Alexander barely blocked it, the impact shuddering through his arm. Before he could recover, she used the wall as leverage, flipping over him with terrifying grace.
She threw him to the ground.
But Alexander rolled with the momentum, surging back up in an instant. His hand locked around her wrist from an angle she hadn’t anticipated.
Her mind reacted—but her body lagged.
Three years of peace had dulled her edge.
And in that fraction of a second, Alexander twisted her arms behind her back and pinned her against the wall.
Silence.
Her vision blurred. She caught glimpses of his sharp jawline, the dangerous fire in his eyes.
Alexander’s control was slipping.
The scent of her perfume—once soothing—now burned in his lungs, pushing him past reason.
