Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 71 - 73

Chapter 71: Chapter 73

Once the cream is applied, I layer fresh gauze over the wound, securing it with strips of medical tape. "This will hold for now," I say, sitting back on my heels to look at him.

His chest heaves with labored breaths, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine. "I need you to listen to me," he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

"And you need to rest." I come close to press the back of my hand to his forehead, noting the warmth lingering there. "You’re running a fever. You also need antibiotics, Simon."

"I’ll manage," he mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.

"No," I say firmly, my eyes locking onto his. "You need real treatment, and soon."

"I can’t exactly go to a regular hospital, can I? My injuries demand an inquiry—not that it would even matter with half of law enforcement in Haru’s pocket."

"So it’s decided. Hospital."

"You’re a threat," Simon declares. "Botan doesn’t want you dead but his people do—and God help you when Haru finds out. Don’t you see? Botan is fearsome because he is a man without a conscience without weakness, but this—" his fingers flutter to gesture at an amorphous thing. "Love is a liability, you have become his weakness and that can never be tolerated."

"Botan wouldn’t harm me," I profess back.

"His people would, they would defy him to honor Haru if he wished you dead. Avara, you are surrounded by enemies. Your father is tarnished and he has allied himself with the Vacherons and that tells me that Colton Vacheron is just another player in the game. So it’s time to make a choice. Will you continue to be a pawn or will you move like a queen?"

"What does that even mean?" I say in sharp frustration.

Simon’s response is calm, deliberate—a dagger in the dark. "He’s already betrayed you."

The truth of his words shatters something fragile inside me. I feel the tears come, hot and unbidden, spilling over as the weight of that betrayal presses down.

I push to my feet, a shaky smile to hide the tremor in my voice. "We’re done," I say, a brittle finality in my tone. "I am no longer your problem, and you are no longer mine—"

"I’m not your enemy," he interrupts, his voice tinged with a quiet urgency.

"I don’t know who I can trust!" I scream, the words tearing free from my throat like a storm breaking. "If I can’t even trust my own father—how can I trust any other man?"

"Then trust the one man who’s only ever told you the truth," Simon fires back, his voice cutting through the eye of the storm like a gunshot.

I whirl around, ready to leave, but his voice stops me again, trembling with something raw and vulnerable. It’s the sound of his desperation that makes me pause, makes me turn back. Simon straightens, his gaze steady despite the pain etched into his features. He’s grateful for the moment, no matter how fleeting.

"I’m not asking you to betray your family," he says softly, his words laced with an odd gentleness. "I’m asking you to let me help you uncover the truth—all of it."

"And when I do?" I demand, my voice quivering under the weight of the question.

"That’s for you to decide," he vows. "But you deserve to know."

His words claw at something buried deep within me, forcing me to confront the whispers I’ve ignored for so long. The Vacherons didn’t just stumble into our lives—they wormed their way in. Botan’s confession that Haru’s men had been watching me long before the alliance gnaws at the edges of my mind, unearthing a darker, more twisted conspiracy.

The fear rises, thick and suffocating. It isn’t just the truth I dread—it’s what the truth will change. Maybe that’s just what I fear—knowing. What if knowing rips apart everything I thought was real? What if it unravels the last threads of all I hold sacred? What if it alters everything?

"Avara?"

"I’m going out with Landen Saturday night," I blurt, the words tumbling out like a confession I hadn’t meant to give. "There’ll be a parade of events designed to flood the media, drowning out any whispers of Vance and me. In case you didn’t know—" I pause, the bitterness sharp on my tongue. "I’m engaged to his brother now. Landen. A cruel, calculated scheme he orchestrated against me. He sees me as the threat."

Simon’s eyes narrow, his expression both shrewd and grim. "Then stay close to him," he counsels, his voice cunning and resolute. "Use him as he’s using you. Sons may not always inherit the sins of their fathers, but in families like theirs, legacy is blood-deep. Perhaps the brothers aren’t tied to whatever the father is involved in but it’s rarely the case with generational empires."

He winces, the movement of his injured body slow as he limps toward me. His gaze lingers, searching my face with a peculiar tenderness that feels out of place in the moment. "You’ve cultivated an image of kindness, selflessness," he murmurs, his voice softening as he speaks. "But it’s not just an image. It’s who you are. And that is why they won’t see it coming."

A ghost of a smile twists the corners of his mouth, wicked and waning, as if the thought amuses him. "Brute force will never outmatch deception," he continues. "Who you are—your very nature—is your armor. That selflessness they underestimate? That’s your weapon."

He pauses, letting the words settle like an undeniable truth. His tone darkens, his gaze piercing through me. "You’re not just surrounded by enemies," he says pensively. "You’re perfectly placed—at the very center. Avara, you could be the storm to undo them all."

***

The phantom-black luxury car blends seamlessly into the night, a shadow among shadows, its presence betrayed only by the soft glow of its open backseat, where the stark white interior gleams like a predator’s teeth. I step inside the custom cabin, the door clicking shut behind me, and for a moment, I’m acutely aware that safety is a lie when you’re locked in with something far more dangerous.

Landen sprawls across the far side of the seat, a smirk curving his lips as he surveys me with lazy amusement. His posture is the picture of dominance, manspreading like the car is his throne, a barely buttoned linen shirt revealing just enough skin to taunt and disarm.

My gaze flickers to the opaque divider at the front. The car glides forward with a silken hum, and even though the motion is smooth, I feel my body tense instinctively.

Landen’s eyes are sharp and predatory as they lock onto mine, his expression laced with mock concern. "Nervous?" he drawls, the word dripping with amusement.

"Irritated," I snap back, my tone brisk, desperate to mask the tension tightening my chest.

A low, wicked chuckle spills from his lips, smooth and sharp as a blade sliding from its sheath. His gaze travels down my body with unashamed leisure, taking in every detail before he shifts closer, the space between us shrinking far too quickly. "Nice dress, Duchess," he murmurs, his voice carrying a biting edge of mockery. "I can’t decide whether to bow or kiss the ring."

I shift away, angling my body toward the door in a futile attempt to create distance, the air around him oppressive. "Neither works for me," I reply coldly, but the defiance in my voice feels thin against the charged tension growing thick in the cabin.

"I was thinking about us," he murmurs, his voice veiled and intimate, the kind of tone that pulls the air from my lungs, leaving me breathless and exposed. His words coil around me, heavy and suffocating, leaving no room for escape, no comfort to cling to.

"There is no us," I mutter, a whisper against the weight of his presence.

He doesn’t stop—he steps over my voice as if my opinion is nothing but a meaningless thing. "I was thinking," he says, leaning closer, the heat of him unbearable, his shadow stretching to swallow mine, "about what a wife should be."

My heart stumbles in my chest as his hand descends, settling on the end of my thigh. His fingers curl, deliberate and unhurried, tracing the bare skin just above my knee in a slow, calculated stroke. His touch isn’t harsh, but it burns, branding his control into me.

"And do you know what I’ve come up with?" he asks, his voice soft, almost contemplative, as though the question is an idle thought and not a noose tightening around my neck. He pauses, just long enough to let the tension sink deeper, to let the venom in his next words fester before they strike.

"The most ideal trait in a wife—" His lips tilt into a smile that isn’t just wicked but deviously satisfied, and his fingers press just slightly firmer against my skin. "Obedience."

His hangs grip my hips to force a pivot before he latches onto my legs to yank me beneath him as the back of head smacks against the inner door—the flare of pain doused by the panic as he pries open my legs to slot himself in between my thighs. I free an ear-piercing scream cut short by his one hand that clamps down my neck and my hands fly to grip his wrist pleadingly—eyes bulging from my sockets like a caricature drawing.

"Scream again and I’ll snap your fucking neck."