Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 57 - 61

Chapter 57: Chapter 61

Avara POV

I settle behind the outside bar of the kitchen where Vance stands at the island with dangling kitchenware near his head. I ease onto the well-supported stool, dull pain flaring through my bottom. Vance watches with entertainment etched in his features, grinning and goofier in this moment than all of the time I have known him for.

"I’m glad at least one of us is amused," I comment dryly.

"I’d watch that tone if I was you," he cautions with a fleeting facade of seriousness before he breaks into another humored grin. "Or did someone not learn from their spanking?"

Impulse makes me flip up a hand of surrender.

"Good girl."

He turns his back to me, rustling through the pantry shelves as if he knows exactly where everything is hidden in the mess of cans and other preservatives. His hand emerges with a tin of tuna, dusty and slightly dented but still sealed. He moves to the cabinet next, pushing aside an assortment of forgotten spices until he locates a half-used bottle of cooking oil, holding it up with a small victorious grin. Finally, he crouches down to the lowest cupboard, his fingers brushing over a jumbled assortment of jars and packets before he finds what he’s looking for—a full, untouched bag of pasta with a familiar logo, one that’s seen better days but still clings to a promise of nourishment.

He straightens up, arms full, and drops the ingredients onto the counter, lining them up with a thoughtful gaze as though they’re pieces of a grand culinary puzzle.

"Is that even edible?" I ask, eyeing the pasta with open skepticism.

The faded, crinkling plastic doesn’t inspire much confidence, and I can’t help but widen my eyes as he inspects it as if to actually consider its consumption.

"Three weeks until the due date." He shrugs, grinning in an uncanny unconcerned kind of way. "We’ll be fine."

He busies himself around the kitchen, retrieving a pot, filling it with water from the tap, and placing it on the stove. He pauses, casting a wary look at the old appliance as if assessing whether it’s up for the task. With a tentative twist of the dial, he coaxes the ancient burner to life, its uneven flame flickering like an old man’s breath. Next, he grabs a heavy cast iron skillet, the surface worn smooth from years of use, and sets it beside the pot, preparing a space for the tuna.

There’s a quiet rhythm to his movements, as though he’s done this a thousand times, as though he had done it all here before. He adds a generous glug of oil to the pan, its amber sheen catching the light, and waits for it to shimmer with heat, his fingers tapping the counter softly. The scent of cooking oil begins to fill the air, blending with the faint tang of the old stove like charred wood. He pulls a draw open, examines it, pushes it back and pulls open another—rifling through it before he pulls out the can opener. He unscrews the lid and drains the fatty grease before pouring it into the pan.

"You can cook?" I ask in a way that elicits an explanation.

He smiles softly to himself, permitting his candor, unvarnished and vulnerable as he says, "Well, remember the house at Lakeshore?"

I bob my brows, bitterness leaking when I say, "How can I not?"

"When it was mentioned that it was the place where we would disconnect." He moves over and leans his rear against the edge of the sink behind him. "The only place in the world where you would catch us doing chores. I was often on cooking duty and Landen was on cleanup. I didn’t like cooking but I loved cooking with my mother."

My eyes sink, stung by my own pang of grief.

"I’m sorry."

My eyes flick back up with brows hoisted to my hairline.

"I know you also..."

"Lost a mom," I conclude for him. "You know, with all this time that has passed. You would think that I would want to talk about her—keep her memories alive. And I know I should because that’s healthy—right? At least that’s what my high school counselor said—it’s important to talk about these things."

Vance listens avidly, arms folding over his chest with his eyes fixated on me.

"But I don’t actually like talking about it, about her," I confess, each word dismantling a guard over my grief that I hadn’t realized I had. "It’s easy to console someone else and say those empty words like time heals all wounds. But when I have to think about my mom and what I lost I get..."

"Angry," he concludes, our eyes locking in silent agreement.

"When I think about my mom I just think of all the time that death robbed me of. So many things we should have experienced and won’t ever experience. I mean, she won’t even be able to attend my fake wedding." A smile breaks through my tears, though I can feel myself unraveling, my voice spilling out in a torrent of frustration and hurt. "I’m so angry she’s gone," I choke out, my breath hitching, the words jagged and raw. "Angry that I have to keep going, as if I could just keep moving on with this—this gaping, empty space where she used to be. It’s not fair that we just had to move on with our lives whilst she—"

My voice trembles, faltering as I’m swept under by an unexpected wave of emotion. The words dissolve, caught in a sob that seems to come from some deep, hidden place, long buried but now irresistible. Before I can catch my breath, Vance darts around the island counter, his footsteps quick and certain, closing the space between us in a heartbeat. He rounds the kitchen bar and stops just in front of me, concern etched into his face. I try to wave him off, offering a shaky smile to show I’m fine—that I can handle th is—but he gently pushes my hand aside, wrapping me up in his arms without hesitation.