Chapter 260

His fingers curled around her limp pinky, cradling it with a gentleness that sent unfamiliar warmth flooding through her veins.

The sensation was electric, like dormant nerves sparking back to life.

Isabella Sinclair exhaled softly, pressing her forehead against the solid expanse of his back. The chill in her hands melted beneath his touch, her fingers instinctively curling into his palm.

Alexander Kingsley's pulse stuttered. He braced for her to recoil, to pull away—so he tightened his grip.

"Stay still," he commanded, voice rough. The gash on his back burned, but he swallowed the pain.

He wouldn't let her see.

Not now.

Not when, for the first time in years, she leaned on him without resistance.

"Ugh, it's freezing," she mumbled, breath fogging in the air.

"Hold on. We'll find shelter." His lungs heaved, every step a battle.

"And if we don't?" Her voice was featherlight, exhaustion dragging at each word.

"Then you'll stay in my arms." The words tumbled out, raw and unguarded.

"No!" Her lashes fluttered wildly. "I'm not letting you take liberties!"

A smirk tugged at his lips. The fire in her protest sent adrenaline surging through him. He adjusted his grip, savoring her weight. She wasn't escaping him now.

Their breaths tangled, hearts hammering in unison.

Thirteen years collapsed between them.

The girl he'd carried then was a woman now.

His wife. For three years.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel Whitmore fought through the storm toward the campsite.

Rain lashed his usually pristine suit, mud caking his shoes. "Miss Isabella!"

He collided with Professor Laurent and Preston Walsh, both clad in rain gear.

"That damn secretary," Preston muttered under his breath.

"Why are you here?" Nathaniel's gut twisted. "Where's Miss Isabella?"

"Mr. Whitmore, calm down!" Preston's voice cracked. "Mr. Kingsley and the rangers are searching the mountain. Three helicopters are en route. He swore he wouldn't return without her!"

Nathaniel staggered.

Since when did the ice-cold Alexander Kingsley make vows for anyone?

"This is my fault." Professor Laurent clawed at his chest. "I never should've let her go up there."

"Stop that! Mr. Kingsley is unstoppable—"

Nathaniel wasn't listening. His hands shook as he dialed Sebastian Sinclair.

The call connected instantly. "Nathaniel. What's wrong with Isabella?"

Sebastian's voice was razor-sharp. He'd felt the unease all night.

"Sir!" Nathaniel's throat closed. "Miss Isabella's in danger. Send help to Misty Mountain Park immediately!"

Sebastian was 350 kilometers away in Azeroth City's military base when the call came.

He'd been visiting his brother, Oliver Sinclair—the firstborn of the quadruplets, now a decorated colonel. Their reunions were rare.

"Oliver." Sebastian's knuckles whitened around the phone. "Isabella's in trouble. I'm leaving now."

"What?" Oliver shot up from the sofa, uniform crisp, composure shattered. "What happened?"

"Our little sister went back to that damned forest." Sebastian's jaw clenched. "She never listens."

Oliver paced, fists tight. His soldiers would've gaped at the uncharacteristic display.

"Donating millions wasn't enough? She had to play hero?"

Sebastian shot him a look. "Remember when she was eleven?"

Oliver's face darkened. "That Abernathy boy ruined her."

"We were born first to protect her," Sebastian said grimly, striding toward the door. "I can't waste time."

"Wait." Oliver snatched his cap from the sofa. "I'm coming."

After an eternity, Alexander found a shallow cave.

He lowered Isabella against the wall. She trembled violently, arms locked across her chest. Her lips were bloodless, cheeks flushed with fever.

Yet her eyes still gleamed defiantly in the gloom.

His stomach lurched when he touched her burning skin. "You're feverish."

"I'll live," she slurred, too weak to resist his cool hands.

He stripped off his jacket and shirt, bundling them around her.

"Still cold?"

"Freezing," she admitted through chattering teeth.

Alexander hesitated—then pulled her against his bare chest, rubbing warmth into her back.

"Better?"

She nuzzled into his neck, breath hot on his skin.

His arms tightened. Fingers threaded through her hair. He needed her to feel safe.

"Isabella," he rasped, pressing her palm to his pounding heart. "Why did you marry me? Was it just... gratitude?"

Her whisper ghosted over his collarbone. "I loved you."

His breath caught.

"I always dreamed of being your wife."

"Do you still?" His voice broke. "Love me?"

She studied their tangled fingers—then slowly pulled away.

"I don't hate you anymore." Her eyes shuttered. "But I don't love you either."