Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 102 - 104

Chapter 102: Chapter 104

Avara POV

I lower the book to peer over at Vance from over the brim of the pristine pages. He sits beside me with the chair angled towards me with his MacBook on his lap, muttering calculations to himself, his elbow propped on the arm, hand in the air as his fingers rub together thoughtfully.

"You know, a desk would be comfortable to work at," I point out.

"Too far from you," he answers with his eyes locked on the screen.

I drop my book on my lap. "Your father hired a top medical team and you still insist on waiting on me hand and foot."

"You make it sound like a burden when it’s a privilege. Besides, even if we didn’t get to the kiss-the-bride part of the ceremony. You are still my wife as it should’ve been from the beginning. Like fate, we were put together before Landen intervened."

"Fair point."

His eyes flick up from the screen. "So would you consider honouring the will of destiny? And having the papers signed with your name and my own."

My eyes swell with shock. "Seriously?"

"Unless you want to be legally bound to Landen?"

"I had to endure regretful things to convince people that Landen and I were in love. And now you want me to do what—sike, it’s all been a prank and Vance and I are still together—always have been?"

"Always have been," he repeats, as if tasting a sip of the sentiment. "I think instead of worrying about what the world thinks. We consider what it is we want."

I nod slowly. "Well, I think you should secure the papers before Landen decides to forge your name or whatever back-and-forth antic either of you have planned."

Vance chuckles quietly at the joke.

"I’m sorry, but I need the bathroom," I say suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

Vance doesn’t hesitate. He closes his MacBook, setting it aside on the bed like his work has lost all significance. He steps closer, arms outstretched, silently offering support.

I shift to the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress tightly. Using both arms like steel limbs, I hoist myself up, but the effort sends pain lancing through my shoulder and abdomen—searing reminders of where the bullets tore through me.

He moves to help, matching my tentative, agonizing steps, but I manage only a few before shaking my head, my breaths uneven.

Without a word, Vance dips and scoops me into his arms effortlessly. He carries me into the en suite and lowers me gently to the floor before the toilet. As I settle, he leaves the room to give me privacy.

When I finish and find myself at the sink, he returns on cue, lifting me again with ease and carrying me back to the bed. He doesn’t complain or falter, just carefully lays me down.

"Anything specific you want for dinner?" he asks, adjusting the duvet with meticulous care to ensure I’m comfortable.

"Something I can pronounce," I quip, managing a faint smile.

He snorts softly, tucking the duvet around me with the same focus one might reserve for critical crafting.

"Is Kelsey okay?" I ask after a pause. "I barely see her now that her makeshift studio’s done."

His lips twitch into a small smile as he settles into a chair nearby, steepling his fingers. "She’s been in there since breakfast. Fabrics and materials are strewn everywhere."

The next morning, I wake to find him in the same chair, washed and dressed in a casual suit, his MacBook balanced on his lap. He’s mumbling to himself, a habit I’ve grown used to.

Even when the physician enters to check my injuries, replacing gauze and dressing wounds, Vance stays put, watching from his chair with quiet vigilance.

***

I wake up with bleary eyes, squinting against the haze of sleep to see his sophisticated silhouette on the chair. My head lifts sharply when I see it’s not Vance this time. The figure is refined, the posture elegant, and yet something about the stillness of his presence tells me he’s been here for a while. My gaze sharpens, and I blink a few times, trying to shake off the remnants of a dream.

It’s Colton.

He’s reading a book, his attention fully absorbed in the pages. But when I make a slight movement, his eyes flick upward, catching mine. He lowers the book, and the cold sharpness of his voice breaks through the silence.

"You’re awake." His words are as cold as metal.

I blink at him, still half-dazed. "And you’re... here?"

"I delegated a few duties for both Landen and Vance. Gave them a chance to fix whatever tension exists between them. So I decided to keep you company while your father couldn’t be here."

A shiver runs through me, the chill in the room making me pull the blanket tighter against my chest. I shift, trying to regain some composure. "That’s so sweet of you, Mr. Vacheron. But you truly don’t have to. Believe me, I’m old enough to spend time alone."

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. "How about this? If you call me by my name, I’ll leave."

I meet his piercing eyes again and notice the subtle way he mirrors Vance—his fingers steepled. The same quiet authority. It catches me off guard, and I stammer, unsure how to respond. The muscle in his jaw twitches, a brief flicker of something unreadable, before he picks up his book again, as if to say the matter is settled.

"I guess I’m staying," I murmur, my words almost lost in the tension that lingers between us.

***

The fire in the hearth hypnotizes me, its crackling warmth drawing me in as the last breath of autumn lingers, though winter inches closer with each passing day. The morning light filters in, and before the world stirs, I am already awake. The sound of the door creaking open pulls me from my thoughts. Vance’s head pokes through.

"Thank God, it’s you—your dad spent the whole day with me yesterday, watching me read, eat—everything."

"A whole day with my dad... you poor creature," Vance chuckles, his laughter bubbling in the air like warmth. "He’s shown you more attention than he has his own sons their entire lives."

"Out of pity," I scoff, the bitterness in my tone sharp. "After a comment he made, I’m sure my dad put me up to it. Butter me up so I can sign the papers."

Vance’s nod is slow, and he lifts a large, yellow envelope—unmarked—into the air. He walks to my side of the bed.

"This was in the mail. It came with some of your family’s belongings."

"Who’s it from?" I ask, an unease creeping in.

"It’s unmarked," Vance replies, a hint of hesitation in his voice. "And I didn’t want to pry."

He hands it to me, and I take it, the rough edges of the paper sharp against my fingertips. Slipping the contents out, I see legal land papers—property title deeds for the estate in France. My eyes fall to the hand-written note stuck to the top. The words burn into me, icy and familiar:

Still your home, even without me in it.

"Avara, you okay?"

I lift my gaze to him, the emptiness in my chest widening. There’s no anger, no hate—just an overwhelming violence that pulses beneath my skin. My body shakes, a pulse of pain firing through me as I try to stand too fast. Vance is quick, his arm reaching for me, but I dodge him with an instinct born of desperation. He stops, respecting the distance, a quiet caution in his movements.

Step by step, I drag myself forward, my legs unsteady, but my resolve firm. Each step sharpens the ache, building until it’s a fire in my gut, but I press on. Finally, I reach the hearth. I stand there for a moment, watching the flames lick the air, their orange glow beckoning. With a flick of my wrist, I hurl the envelope into the fire, the paper curling, blackening.

I stumble back, and Vance’s arms catch me from behind. We watch together as the fire consumes it, the last trace of the past turning to ash.