Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 114 - 116

Chapter 114: Chapter 116

Avara Du Pont

I stand behind Simon, watching his laptop screen from over his shoulder. I can’t make out what program he’s running. Or how he’s sifting through the mounting data on a black digital spec.

"How long will your contact make... contact?"

"Depends, could be an hour, could be several more," he says with his fingers darting over the keyboard.

"I can’t wait that long," I say uneasily. "I have a thing tonight. Gala dinner."

"Have to play dress up for daddy dearest?"

"Something like that," I reply bitterly, expunging what I can from my tone, when I say, "But I do need another favour."

"At this point do you even need to ask?" he says with his still fixated on the laptop screen.

"I need you to pin me down."

His fingers freeze over the keyboard.

"In every way you can think of," I say, the vagueness in the suggestion only implies the worst. "Let me explain. Just like how you taught me to handle a gun. I want to learn how to handle myself. Especially in a position when I’m pinned down, and the guy is obviously stronger than me. If not twice my size."

With the back of his head facing me, I can’t see his face but the fierce haste on how he launches to his feet tells me enough. I step away to avoid the chair as he pushes past it. A haze of anger clouding his eyes as his focus fastens on my wrist. I thought for sure he was about to grab me and examine it for himself. Instead, he lifts his hand with his palm exposed, a silent, pleadful and respectful request. The thoughtful sensitivity implores my instinct to yield and I lift my hand to place my wrist on his palm. His fingers cradle the delicate weight as his other hand tugs down my sleeve to reveal my bandaged wrist.

"I’ll save you the trouble of asking. Don’t." My voice is much weaker this time. "All you do have to know is that I’ve been in positions. More than I liked when I was powerless. Nothing extreme but also nothing I wanted. And I want to know how to get out of it."

Simon says nothing, he only concedes a stiff nod. This is what I adore about Simon. He does what no man would, and that’s equipping me on how to protect myself instead of wanting to protect me. For most of my life, I have always felt safe and protected, having the father and brothers that I do—always under the shelter of their protection. I’ve never needed nor did I ever feel inclined to learn how to protect myself.

However, twice the men I trust most endangered not only my safety, but exploited it to get what they wanted. I can longer trust that protection. And if I can’t even trust my own blood—who can I trust?

"So are we making this a roleplay thing or what?" Simon asks uncomfortably, his gaze hovering just beneath mine, tension clamping down on his jaw.

My eyes glance at the nearest wall. "How about you try to pin me to the wall, then the bed."

His eyes compress shut for a split second, and suddenly the colour palette on the ceiling is very fascinating to him. His throat works, exposed with his Adam’s apple bobbing.

"To be honest, I’m not okay with this—you even have an injury."

"How do you think my brother got the device?" I ask sardonically. "I gave it to him? No. He hurt me, so he could take it. You know I thought that—that was one thing they wouldn’t be capable of—hurting me. I was wrong."

His eyes level and a sense of compassion cracks the hard mold over his features. "I don’t know your brothers, but I may understand them. The end justify the means type. I’ve had to do a lot of ugly things to achieve good results and they worked—most of the time. By shielding your dad, they believe they’re protecting you. It’s twisted but I get it... no son wants to disappoint their father."

"Neither does a daughter—" my voice fractures and I draw back, trying to steady myself. "I never wanted this."

"Okay," he says swiftly, binding the space between us with each step. "I’ll help you."

I nod gratefully.

"Just know," he warns, "I’m going to come at you the same way an attack would."

Even though I asked for help, I set this in motion, but my body betrays me. I find myself retreating reflexively. How foolish I must look for requesting him to teach me then shrinking at the last second. He cautions closer and still I recede. Simon lunges and seizes my throat to slam my back against the surface of the wall. A sharp gasp rips from my lungs at the impact. His grip isn’t crushing, but the sheer force of it sends a jolt through me. His eyes widen, startled by my reaction, as if fearing he’s gone too far.

"I’m fine," I rasp with my good hand locked around his wrist. "Just show me how to get out of this."

He instructs me carefully, patiently, talking me through each motion with a smooth-toned voice like he’s regaling a story. It douses my panic and makes my muscles to be more malleable, by body flowing to the movement his words orchestrates.

I tuck my chin, reducing the pressure on my windpipe, and drive my arm up between his, forcing a wedge. Simultaneously, I shift my weight and twist sharply to the side, breaking the line of force holding me in place. Simon’s grip falters for a fraction of a second, and that’s what is needed.

I trap his wrist against my chest with one hand and slam my other arm down in a sharp arc, striking the crook of his elbow. His fingers spasm, the hold breaking just enough for me to slip free with ragged but stable breathing.

Simon exhales, rubbing his wrist. "Good," he commends. "Again."

His arm twitches—a tighter grip on my neck before he rams back into the wall again. A gasp explodes from me and a smile wobbles across my face.

"I think you’re enjoying this too much," I croak out, my words squeezing their way out from my constricted airways.

I repeat the maneuver again and this time he throws in a curveball. That is the lesson when techniques fail; to always expect the unexpected. It’s not about method or motion but the mind—to think strategically even under high-pressure situations when I’m under blinding panic and flooded with adrenaline, barely able to think.

He backs away. I glance behind me at the open bedroom.

"Think I’m ready for the final boss level?"

"No," he says bluntly. "The Avara who first showed up at my house. Now she... she was easier to kill."

I meet his eye with a confused smile. "So what now I’m ruthless?"

"Ready," he corrects, then he gestures to the hotel bedroom. "After you."

I snort a laugh as I push down his arm. "Don’t do that, you’re making me feel like a cheap hooker."

"You’d at least be my favourite."

I turn away, shaking my head with a smile. I make a start to the door. When out of nowhere, Simon grabs me from behind and hurls me to the floor. I hold back a cry when pain catches in my wrist like a flick of fire. I force myself around and the cold press of the floor against my back is nothing compared to the weight pinning me down. I try not to scream—I know what he’s doing, what he’s trying to gauge—a real reaction. But this shock triggers a traumatic slew of memories, Grayson, Landen, Vance, Colton, flashes of them all once on top of me.

A tear leaks from my eye as I writhe under him mindlessly. Simon straddles my waist, one hand gripping my throat, the other bracing against my shoulder to keep me trapped.

"Avara," he commands, his voice grounding, his voice staving off the surge of dreadful panic.

Without counsel, I school myself to calm down because if I find myself in this scenario again. It would be on me to not allow myself to drown in dread. When he sees that clarity has claimed my composure, he instructs me on what to do and how to do it efficiently.

I hook my good hand around his wrist, not to pull, but to control. At the same time, I plant my feet flat against the floor, bending my knees. It feels weird but with a sudden buck of my hips, I bridge upward, throwing him forward just enough to shift his balance. The second his weight shifts, I turn onto my side, tucking my injured arm against my body to protect it.

His grip loosens as he instinctively braces himself. That’s my opening. I snake my free arm under his, trapping his elbow against my body, and use my legs to drive to the side, twisting us both so I can end on top of him, seated on his groin.

Simon exhales sharply. His lips quirk in something close to approval. "Not bad."

I look down at him with a breathy smile as I slant my head to the side. "Again?" I ask tauntingly.

My smile drops when I feel the swell of arousal beneath me. In disbelief, more so because I like it, so much so I grind against him to feel more of his *growth* and that elicits a tortured groan from him as he seizes my hips to stop me.

"Don’t go starting something you can’t finish."

"Don’t go challenging what you wouldn’t want to stop."

He whips upright, shifting me back so I’m on his lap and he’s staring up at me. His hands still bolted to my hips and his eyes never wavering from mine.

"I’m stopping it now," he ends. "Unlike others, I’m not bewitched by you."

"You find me bewitching?" I ask teasingly.

"Get off me."

My eyes dart to the invulnerable strength in his hands. I try to move but I can’t budge an inch because his grip on my hips is infrangible. My eyes flick up at him and he struggles to draw in his next breath. He releases me slowly, planting his hands behind him. I shift closer, sliding up to come flush against his torso, tracking my gaze as I rise with my knees on either side of him, his face lifts as my own hovers above his.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"For what?" he whispers back.

"Being such a good... mentor."