Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 56 - 60

Chapter 56: Chapter 60

Avara POV

The bedroom’s rugged charm is softened by thoughtful details. Wide, weathered wooden beams stretch across the ceiling with dark, aged grain. The walls are clad in honey-toned logs, polished just enough to reveal the wood’s natural knots and texture, which glow warmly in the soft light from a pair of sconces mounted beside the bed.

In the center, a large, inviting bed is draped with layers of thick, woven blankets in earth-toned hues—moss green, slate gray, and deep chestnut—spilling over the sides in a cozy tumble. Pillows in mismatched flannel and rough wool are piled against a solid, hand-carved headboard, which bears subtle etchings of trees and mountains. Nearby, a small nightstand holds a weathered oil lamp and an old leather-bound book.

Near the bed, a sturdy wooden chair sits in the corner, a faded red and black plaid shirt casually slung over the back, and a thick woolen sweater draped over the seat—pairs of worn boots line one flank of the room, scuffed from years of use. I meander over to the wardrobe, mostly empty aside from a few well-worn clothes within.

I slip out‌ of an emerald dress to place it on the foot of the chair as I make my way to the open seat. I pluck the earthy gray sweater and slide it on so it can hang quite heavily, but comfortably, over my body. Daringly, I bring the fabric to my nose for a whiff and I can catch a long-lingering scent like a delicate wisp laced around the woolen fibers—spicy and masculine cologne.

I fetch the dress bundling it in my arms as I leave the room barefoot. The entire cabin smells faintly of pine and cedar, with a trace of wood smoke lingering in the air, as though the shell of its interior has been seasoned by countless fires.

I enter the primary space again, and I stutter to stop when I spot Vance. He reaches up, fingers brushing over the collar of his black shirt, adjusting it. The shirt falls open just slightly, revealing a hint of the crisp white tee underneath, the contrast lending an effortless edge to his look. The dark-washed jeans, well-fitted and subtly worn in all the right places, cling to his legs, highlighting their shape, long and lithe.

As he catches sight of me watching, he pauses, turning to face me fully, an eyebrow raised in amused curiosity. A small, confused smile pulls at his lips, as though trying to puzzle out my gaze.

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing," I murmur, a touch embarrassed but unable to keep the smile off my face. "I’ve just...never seen you in jeans before."

He lets out a low, amused chuckle, glancing down at his own legs as if seeing himself through my eyes. "Well," he says, with a hint of self-consciousness softened by his grin, "You are as surprised as I am." His voice is warm, astonishingly playful, and I feel my own smile widen as we share this simple, unexpected moment—one that feels oddly intimate as if I’m once again witnessing a side of him usually kept tucked away.

He claps his hands, snapping me out of the ephemeral moment. "I’m starving. So I’m not going to check if my dear mate hopefully left something for us to raid—perishables, probably."

"We just came from a restaurant?"

"You think I could eat anything whilst—" A sudden realization forces him into a retreat. He makes a face—a harsh twitch of his features as he came close to regretting something he should never admit. "I didn’t have much of an appetite.

I look back at him curiously, almost challengingly. "And now you do?"

He shrugs as if it’s meaningless. "Apparently."

He nods over to the kitchen and makes a brisk start. I shake my head, but I follow nonetheless, folding my arms with the baggy sleeves slipping over. Vance casts a look of intrigue over his shoulder, giving the full length of me a polite perusal.

"You look cute, by the way."

"And you still look like an entitled aristocrat."

He pauses to whirl around and face me with an expression of suppressed insult.

"I mean that in a good way," I disclaim, unfolding my arms so my hands can align with my head. "It just means that you naturally carry an air of sophistication. It’s like the world is yours."

"It almost was," he says cryptically before turning away.

Normally I would let some vague sentiment like that go unseen, but this time I can’t. I fall into step behind him, flowing into the kitchen. The walls are a mix of exposed brick and weathered wood, adding texture and depth, with a few shelves carved directly into the wood, lined with jars of spices, herbs, and dried goods, each one labeled in faded handwriting.

"Wait, what do you mean before—you almost what?"

He looks back at me with a blank look, like I’m speaking an alien language.

"What you said before?"

"I barely said anything," he says, turning his back on me again. "You just went on about me being an entitled dick, basically."

Thrown off course, I gawk back at him. "I never said that!"

Vance moves his head, darting past a collection of copper pots and cast-iron skillets hanging, swaying ever so slightly. He goes to random cupboards, swinging them open with almost inimical irritation with haste and aggression that is far beyond necessary.

"Wait, are you actually mad at me?" I ask with a bewildered smile.

"No."

The single word cuts through the air, blunt and final. He leans forward, inspecting the sparse contents of the fridge with a steely focus, his eyes narrowing as he pushes around a few items, rifling through with a growing impatience. His hands sweep over cartons and jars, the clink of glass and scrape of plastic filling the quiet, until finally, he pulls back, a scowl deepening on his face, clearly unsatisfied with the options. With a sudden, sharp motion, he slams the door shut, the echo vibrating through the kitchen, and immediately strides over to the next cabinet, his movements quick and unrelenting.

I trail behind him, my eyes darting between his rigid shoulders and the cupboards, trying to keep up with his relentless pace. He yanks open each door in turn, his frustration simmering in each decisive tug, each harsh scan of the shelves. Finally, he brushes past me, so close that I catch the faint scent of his cologne, laced with a touch of musk and gourmand. There’s an intensity to his movements, an energy that feels almost like a storm building, quiet and contained but undeniably present.

He reaches the pantry and dives in without a glance back, his hand grasping for boxes and cans with barely a pause to check labels. His tension fills the room, crackling between us.

I can’t help but murmur, "It kinda feels like you’re angry at me."

He freezes, fingers still wrapped around a can, before letting out a slow breath. His shoulders drop, and he lets his hand fall away from the pantry shelf. For a moment, he doesn’t turn, his face obscured from view, but the weight of his silence is heavy, thickening the air between us with words unspoken, emotions barely held in check. When he finally turns to look at me, there’s a flash of something in his eyes—something raw, caught somewhere between frustration and vulnerability.

"Is that what you really think of me?" he says finally.

Since when does he care what I think of him? And I never thought any bad reflection would ever bother him.

I look around, perplexed, finding it difficult to meet his gaze at this moment. "That you’re a sophisticated guy? Yeah."

"Entitled, believes the world is his," he quotes from me, "so clearly I must be self-obsessed or even aloof with a superior complex if I carry that kind of—air."

My shoulders slump as I shake my head with a dry smile. "You’re making something out of nothing—isn’t it normally the woman who does that?"

He glares at me with serious offense before he breaks into a tantalizing laugh that makes him tip his head back. The sound inspires a smile before I too join the chorus and he looks back at me with sparkling eyes.

"You’re in your sassy era," I say, with one hand flipped up innocently. "No judgment here."

His grin tapers into a terse line, but something impish flickers over his features. "No, you’re going to pay for that comment."

He takes a playful step forward and I scramble back.

"Vance... let’s talk about this."

He fixes me with a look, a spark of dangerous mischief in his eyes that’s so unmistakably Landen. Before I can think twice, I whirl around and bolt out of the kitchen, laughter spilling from my lips as I hear his footsteps thunder behind me. I barely make it two steps before he catches up, his arms closing around me like steel. With a swift motion, he scoops me up, spinning me effortlessly until I’m tossed over his shoulder. My view is suddenly filled with the wooden floors swaying beneath us as he strides forward.

"Take it back," he demands, his voice laced with playful threat.

"I said what I said!" I object, breathless with laughter, unable to stop the grin on my face.

Then, without warning, a sharp smack lands on my bum, and a loud yelp escapes me, the sound both startled and indignant as it echoes through the room.

"You did not just—"

But he cuts me off with another smack, harder this time, and I let out a shriek, half-laughing, half-outraged.

"Take it back," he repeats, his tone casual, almost daring. The warmth of his hand still tingles and stings against my skin, and I squirm, kicking my legs in a futile protest while his laughter rumbles above me, deep and amused.

"Okay!" I yield. "I’m sorry... that you’re so sensitive."

Words I may rue. He just chuckles again; this one foreboding, his grip firm, making it perfectly clear that he’s not letting go until he decides he’s had his fun.