"What did you just say?!"
Ramsey froze mid-motion, his expression darkening as he stared at the man before him.
What did he mean by "If I die, Sinclair won't live either"?
That tone of absolute certainty—had this bastard planted some kind of trap?!
"You heard me perfectly well, didn't you?"
Micheal's face twisted in pain, yet his bloodstained lips curled into a sick, shadowy smirk.
"Go ahead, do it," he rasped, his crimson eyes locked onto Ramsey, his voice ragged as if torn from his throat.
"Having Sinclair accompany me in death... isn't such a bad way to go."
Ramsey's brow furrowed deeply, his expression grave.
Had anyone else uttered those words, he wouldn't have believed them for a second. But Micheal was different.
This man was insane—a complete and utter madman.
"Why would you say that?"
Ramsey threw down the leather whip and lunged forward, his fingers closing like a vice around Micheal's throat.
