Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 107 - 109

Chapter 107: Chapter 109

Kelsey POV

The next morning, everyone’s at the breakfast table. But Avara makes it a point to ignore both Vance and Landen. I dish myself a plate at the buffet style option that the staff prepared. Promptly, Colton Vacheron strides into the kitchen with an air of confidence that feels magnetised. I can feel it as palpable as a pulse of heartbeat.

He delivers a request to the chef with an astonishing smile, bright and charming but so unnerving and unnatural for the stoic canvas of his face only reserved for cold contempt. When he’s done, he draws closer to Avara, hunching over her from behind in the same banner a manager would do to critique his employer’s work from over his shoulder. Nothing out of the ordinary in whatever he whispers until places an affectionate hand on the small of her back before joining his sons.

"Kelsey, I have a question," Landen calls out.

Then everyone glances at me but I only look back at Avara as she urges me with a quick nod. With my plate, I walk over to sit between Landen and Colton.

"Have you got a venue for your show?"

"I do."

"Cancel it," Landen states.

"Excuse me?" I snap.

"What he means," Vance intervenes. "With your approval, I can have your event held at the Victoria & Albert Museum."

My jaw drops to my plate. "Seriously?"

"You can thank my dad for that," Vance says, his grin wide with excitement. "I showed him your plans, and he liked them."

I glance back at him, absorbing the rush of his enthusiasm, and nods formally.

"I’m prepared to bankroll you for an entire season—double what your original investor offered."

"Why?"

"I invest in quality. It’s as simple as that," he replies. "And your designs are nothing short of exquisite."

So high on excitement, Landen asks a slew of questions, which I answer each with an easy smile, feeling my energy lift the air around us.

But the moment shifts. Colton rises from the table, his stride purposeful. As Avara finishes her breakfast and leaves, he follows her out. The two of them walking together feels too deliberate, too close. I hope they don’t notice, but they do—instantly.

"Since when are those two best friends?" he asks mockingly.

Vance doesn’t even look up, waving it off with a shrug. "Probably just trying to strong-arm her into signing the papers."

The weight of their observations lingers in the air even as breakfast wraps up. By the time I’m alone in my bedroom, my nerves simmer with unease. I pick up my phone to call Avara’s dad and somehow I feel like a traitor.

"Kelsey, everything okay?" Uncle Al’s voice cuts through, laced with concern.

"Yes and no, Uncle Al." My throat tightens, but I force the words out. "I hope I’m not overstepping by saying this, but I appreciate the Vacherons’ protection. I really do. It’s just..." I pause, exhaling shakily. "At this point, I think I’d rather risk the bullets."

"What happened?" His tone sharpens, heavy with worry.

"Nothing—nothing specific, I swear." I scramble to assure him, though my voice wavers. "Mr. Vacheron has been... so kind, so generous. He’s even offered to fund my entire season." I hesitate, the unease creeping back. "But that’s not the point. The point is, I’m not comfortable here. I feel unsafe, and I don’t know why."

A long silence stretches across the line.

"I know it’s ridiculous—"

"How you feel is never something to be dismissed. I need to tie up a few things besides this beside, but thank you for letting me know."

He drops the call and I bring it from my ear awkwardly.

***

I step back, letting my gaze sweep over the first look from my final collection displayed in the makeshift studio. The design is a deliberate fusion of tradition and futurism—sophisticated yet bold, inspired by Avara’s timeless elegance, something akin to Kate Middleton stepping into the Capitol of The Hunger Games. The silhouette is sleek. Abstract, but not in a way that weird way—its innovation feels effortless, like an evolution of classic style.

The door swings open behind me, interrupting the moment. Landen strides in, his usual playful air replaced by something colder, sharper. No smile, no quirk of his lips. His voice is clipped, cutting through the creative hum of my sanctity.

"We need to talk."

I glance over my shoulder but don’t fully turn. "I’m busy."

"What’s going on between my father and Avara?" he demands.

My back stiffens instinctively. "What do you mean?" I reply, keeping my tone steady, indifferent, as if the question hasn’t unsettled me.

"They’ve been spending a lot of time together lately," he presses, his sharp gaze boring into me.

I inhale slowly, smoothing my expression before turning to face him. "Your father and Avara have a relationship that exists out of the alliance. You do realize your father is one of the biggest donors to the DuPont Foundation, don’t you?" My tone is measured, but there’s a quiet challenge in it. "They’re probably talking logistics."

Landen lunges forward, sweeping me off my feet and throwing me over his shoulder in one swift motion. My breath escapes in a startled gasp before anger floods in. I scream, writhing and thrashing against his grip, my fists pounding futilely at his back. The hall echoes with my protests as I twist, trying to catch anyone’s attention.

One of the male attendants rounds the corner, his gaze flickering between us with uncertainty.

"Fuck off," Landen barks.

The attendant recoils, stepping back without a word. Landen strides forward, his grip tightening as I claw at his back, my voice hoarse from shouting. He storms up the stairs, unyielding, until we reach his bedroom. Panic surges in my chest, drumming wildly against my ribs. My fingers latch onto the banister in a desperate attempt to halt his momentum, but he wrenches me free with a force that leaves me breathless.

Inside his room, he finally sets me down, his hand firm on my jaw as he tilts my face toward the tall, arched window. My heart pounds, my chest heaving as he forces my gaze outward.

"That look like logistics to you?" he spits, his voice venomous.

My body freezes as I take in the scene outside. Through the manicured garden, Colton and Avara stroll side by side, their silhouettes striking against the golden wash of sunlight. Colton halts, turning to her, his stance relaxed but his proximity intimate. His hands rest casually in his pockets, but the way his head tilts slightly, his gaze locked on hers, feels undeniably personal. There’s no touch, no overt affection, but the closeness—the way his smile lingers as though she’s the only person in the world.

My throat tightens as I seize the moment, elbowing Landen hard enough to force him back.

I break free, stumbling a step away, my voice rising. "They’re just talking."

"Talking?" he scoffs, his tone sharp with disbelief. His gaze drills into mine, filled with something between anger and betrayal. "Like that? I’ve never seen my father look at anyone like that—not even my mother."

I narrow my eyes, my voice cutting through the tension. "So why are you yelling at me?" I say, matching the volume, matching the anger. "Let your daddy know about your issues."

He steps closer, his movements sharp and purposeful. "My issue is her—always has been. She’s poison."

The insult to her is one to me as I can feel the heat rising in me, and before I can think, my hand swings—backhanding him with a speed that takes both of us by surprise. The shock in his eyes flickers, but it quickly burns into something sharper, darker.

"You watch your mouth when you talk about her," I warn.

His smirk is sharp. "She’s been with me, Vance, and what, now our father? With that much Vacheron inside her, we don’t even need the papers anymore."

I move to strike again, but this time, he’s faster. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist with a grip like iron. His sly grin sends a chill through me, and before I can react, his lips crash onto mine. The force of it leaves me reeling, but I bite—hard—on his lower lip. I taste blood..

He pulls back, eyes still dark with amusement, licking his lip, the red smear a taunting, bloody smile.

My pulse pounding in my ears as I turn and run hout of his bedroom, away from whatever that moment was.