Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 70 - 72

Chapter 70: Chapter 72

"It wouldn’t have happened if I’d known. And known about what?"

"Botan," he spits the name like venom. "Botan’s men did this to me. Tell me, Avara—" his voice cracks, heavy with accusation, "—is that the kind of man you want in your life? Because I thought Haru Black and everything tied to him is the shadow over your life. But Botan?" He lets out a bitter, hollow laugh. "Haru might be one of the most powerful men in the world, but even his power comes from Botan. Botan—because he’s the most feared." His gaze locked onto mine with searing intensity. "I want to hear it from you. Is there something between you and Botan Kiyosaki?"

His words are a dagger, carving into places I didn’t think could hurt anymore. My breath catches, my chest tightening as shame, guilt, and something far more complicated rise like a storm within me.

"Nothing was supposed to happen between us," I whisper finally, the words fractured and guarded, a fragile truth I can barely admit to myself sometimes.

"But it did," Simon presses, his voice raw and unrelenting.

I yield an unsteady nod.

I flinch at the harsh curse he throws even though it’s not aimed at me.

"You can’t trust him—hell, you can’t even be with him. Avara—he’s a criminal, aside from breaking every law in our constitution and violating every human right. He’s a killer too—he’s massacred hundreds. And you’re okay with that?"

"Of course not," I snap from a sudden surge of anger. "It’s complicated, you won’t understand because you haven’t seen what I have seen. He’s—"

"Different?" he spits out again. "Has a soft spot only for you or some shit? Come on, not even you could be that naive. I don’t care if he’s secretly a hopeless romantic—he’s a killer."

I flinch at the stab of words.

"A killer, " he repeats.

I lift a trembling hand, signaling for mercy, for a reprieve I know won’t come. "I—I know," I choke out, my voice quivering under the weight of the sob clawing up my throat, threatening to break free.

"Do you?" Simon’s voice is a serrated edge, sharp and unforgiving.

With a pained grunt, he levers himself off the couch, his movements stiff and deliberate. He drags a box from its hiding place, the scrape of cardboard on wood as grating as the shearing tension between us. From inside, he extracts a folder, weathered and thick, the weight of his old life condensed into brittle pages.

"My case files," he mutters, rifling through them with an urgency born of anger. When he finds what he’s looking for, he pulls a bundle of photographs free and slaps them onto the coffee table, their glossy surfaces catching the dim light.

My stomach churns as my gaze lands on the images—bodies reduced to horror. Flesh melted into grotesque, unrecognizable shapes. Limbs severed, organs missing, gaping voids where life once pulsed. The details blur together in a kaleidoscope of carnage, and bile rises to the back of my throat.

I slap a hand over my mouth, whipping away before I lose the fragile grip on my composure.

"Don’t you dare turn your back on your boyfriend’s victims," Simon snarls, his voice laced with righteous rage. "Because it was me—me—who had to notify their families. It was me who stood on their doorsteps and told them their loved ones were gone. And it was me who had to explain that no one would likely ever be brought to justice for what was done to them. So, tell me, Avara." His words are venomous, each one a deliberate strike. "Is that the man you want?"

"I didn’t choose him!" I whirl back around, the words ripping from me like shrapnel. "He and his boss threatened my family. Do you think I want this? Do you think I want to care for him? We’ve been on the receiving end of not his brutality, but indeed his threats. I know the consequences."

Simon lets out a harsh, mirthless laugh, blown wide open with spite. "You don’t," he hisses, his eyes narrowing into twin blades. "You have no idea what forces you’re contending with. No idea what powers would see you destroyed. And you think you can survive them?" His voice drops, low and dangerous. "You’re already in the jaws of the beast, Avara. You don’t get it, Botan—"

He stumbles, his grimace twisting into a mask of pain, and before I can think, I’m at his side, guiding him carefully down to the couch. His body is trembling, the damping sheen of cold sweat betraying how much worse off he is than he lets on.

My gaze darts over him, searching for the source of his agony until it lands on his abdomen. Without hesitation, I sink to my knees in front of him, my hands steady despite the knot tightening in my chest. His legs part instinctively as I position myself between them, his sharp intake of breath breaking the tense silence. His eyes widen, startled, but he doesn’t stop me.

"Let me see," I murmur, more to reassure myself than him.

I lift the hem of his shirt, moving slowly, carefully, as if he might break beneath my touch. The fabric clings stubbornly to his clammy skin, and when it finally gives, I’m met with the sight of hastily applied gauze, frayed at the edges and stained with an ominous dark bloom.

"Shallow wound," he says, his voice tight, words clipped by pain. "Patched it up myself."

The gauze sticks as I begin to peel it back, and he hisses sharply, the sound slicing through the quiet room. When the wound is finally exposed, my stomach clenches. Angry red streaks radiate from the jagged gash, the flesh around it swollen and inflamed.

"It’s infected," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the hammering of my pulse.

I pull in a shaky breath and steady myself. "Med kit."

I lift a trembling hand. I glance around the dimly lit room, spotting the basic first-aid kit he must have clearly used earlier. Grabbing it, I bring it to my side, emptying its meager contents onto the coffee table: a bottle of rubbing alcohol, gauze pads, medical tape, and an antiseptic cream. Not much, but it’ll have to do.

"I need you to lie back," I say softly, meeting his gaze. His jaw tightens, but he complies, easing himself down with a groan.

Kneeling between his legs, I adjust the angle of the couch’s lamp, directing its weak light toward the wound. The sight is worse up close: angry red streaks branching out from the gash, a telltale sign the infection is spreading.

"This will hurt," I warn, my voice low but firm.

"I’ve had worse," he mutters, though his voice is thin with fatigue.

I tear open a fresh gauze pad, soaking it in rubbing alcohol. The sharp, sterile scent fills the air as I press it against the wound. His body jerks, and a guttural hiss escapes his lips, but I don’t stop. I have to clean it thoroughly, no matter how much it hurts him—or me.

"You have to stay still," I whisper, my tone quivering between a plea and command.

He bites down on his bottom lip, his fists clenching at his sides. Beads of sweat roll down his temples, mixing with the faint sheen already on his skin.

When the wound is clean—red and raw, but free of the foul discoloration—I set aside the bloodied gauze and inspect it more closely. The gash is shallow but jagged, likely from a blade. No stitches, I note grimly, just a hasty attempt to close it with tape that failed miserably.

I reach for the antiseptic cream, squeezing a generous amount onto my fingers. "This is going to sting," I warn again.

"Just get on with it," he grits out.

As I smooth the cream over the wound, he sucks in a sharp breath, his body going rigid beneath my touch. I try to be gentle, but the uneven edges of the gash make it impossible to avoid the tender, inflamed areas.

"How do you know how to do all of this?" he whispers in a rough rasp.

"I spearheaded outreach programs," I begin, my tone steady but pointed, "bringing aid to the most impoverished corners of the Middle East and Africa. I spent months on the ground, side by side with volunteer doctors, watching them work.. and I paid attention."

His lips curl into a faint smile, but it doesn’t quite hold. "Ever the saint," he murmurs, his voice laced with harmless mockery.

I let the words hang in the air for a moment, then reply with quiet conviction, my gaze unwavering. "We both know I’m anything but."

"Avara," he strains, shifting slightly beneath my touch. "My scrutiny is toward Botan—Haru Black and his entire organization. Them. Not you. There is no question that your intentions are as pure as your heart. Someone like Botan is poison, you don’t want something like him anywhere near your life."