Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 72 - 74

Chapter 72: Chapter 74

He releases and the echoes of my panic wilt on my tongue as tears pour from eyes, streaming down my temples. The last thing I want is for him to see me cry but I can’t help it—I can’t stop the deluge.

"It’s a nice dress," he breathes with a hellish and hypnotic lilt in his voice as his fingers curl around the modest chest cut out. "You look like a king’s queen, when I need you to look like his—mistress."

He wrenches the hole wider, the force lifting me an inch off the backseat as I ground my jaw to hold in any sound—the fabric ripping, tearing a plunging neckline to create a gaping slit to expose my breasts and glimpses of my strapless bra.

"Better."

I thud back down, flinching when his finger comes near my face. Landen’s thumb then swipes away at a streak of tears with a whisper of menace in the movement that was made to be loving. "Wouldn’t it have just been easier to listen the first time, hm? Instead of trying to make a monster of me."

I squeeze my eyes shut as I jerk my face away as if willing reality to relent this nightmare.

He pulls himself away from me slowly and I scramble back upright like the car is on fire, shrinking into the corner. Landen digs into the opposite side compartment on his side to take out sanitary wipes and chucks it onto the vacant space between us.

"Fix your makeup."

***

The door opens, a breeze turns the flap, the gaping silt sags open, a droopy desecration I try to hide by crossing my arms over my chest as I climb out.

The house hosting the party is less a home and more a spectacle. A sprawling manor perched precariously on the water’s edge, its foundation elevated on sturdy supports that defy gravity and reason. Most of the structure extends out over a private lake, its shimmering surface reflecting the grandeur above. From a distance, it appears as though the house is floating, an architectural mirage hovering over liquid black glass.

Landen places a possessive hand on the small of my back to steer me towards the grandiose entrance. As soon as we step through, the thumping bass drives my pulse and the scent of sex fills the air. Dancing black silhouettes against the hazy red. The stripper poles and risque trapeze artists suspended in the air and dancing just as erotically as the strippers who might as well be naked.

The crowd begins to thicken around us, a hive of eager bodies swarming in Landen’s orbit, each vying for his attention. Women make bold advances, their smiles honeyed and intentions clear, but Landen dismisses them with an air of cool disinterest. His hands find my hips instead, pulling me against him with a deliberate ease meant to both claim and provoke. The possessive grip of his arm around my waist is matched by the commanding rise of his other hand, signaling to someone across the room.

"Alec!"

It takes two sharp calls over the pounding bass before a head jerks up, eyes scanning before locking on us. Alec—a tall, lanky man with hair soggy from an ungodly amount of gel—grins and weaves his way through the throng, navigating past tipsy guests and server girls with trays. Landen’s grip remains firm, holding me as if to moor me to his side, until Alec’s approach provides my chance to slip free.

"So this is her?" Alec says, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s sizing up a prize at auction. And I feel like nothing more than a piece of gleaming metal at a carshow. There’s something about his smirk that makes my skin crawl, the way it lingers just a fraction too long. "If she wasn’t yours, mate, I’d poach her for myself."

Landen chuckles darkly, a sound that scrapes like steel. "Come near her, and I’ll chop your balls off. Though, lucky for you, I hear they don’t make knives that small."

"Always an asshole," Alec laughs, pulling Landen into a hearty embrace, his hand clapping against Landen’s back. Then, with exaggerated concern, he grabs Landen’s face as if inspecting him. "You alright, mate?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Cause you’re sober," Alec quips before throwing an arm around Landen’s shoulders and flagging down two server girls. One carries a tray of shots, the other an array of delicate pastries. Landen plucks a shot glass, and Alec follows, clinking them together before downing the contents in one smooth motion, their shared laughter brash and conspiratorial.

"Mrs. Vacheron," Alec says, tilting the tray of shots toward me with a devilish grin.

I shake my head firmly. "I don’t drink."

"Ah, right," he says with a sly smirk, leaning closer as if to share a secret. "Heard that didn’t work out so well for you the last time."

Landen’s smirk deepens, wicked and glinting.

"This asshole could make a nun break her vows," Alec says, his tone a blade dipped in honey. Alec’s laughter rings out, sharp and knowing, the sound grating against my composure.

Alec shifts his attention to me with exaggerated charm, gesturing toward the second tray. "Fine, fine—no shots. But surely, you’ll try one of these. Best choux pastries you’ll ever taste, and my grandmother’s recipe, no less."

"I’m fine," I say curtly, my tone too cutting.

Landen’s sharp glare cuts through the space between us, his disapproval palpable. Alec’s exaggerated pout follows, his puppy-dog act layered with mockery. "Oh, come on. One bite won’t kill you. If you’re marrying him, you’re practically family, and that means you have to."

Just to silence them, I pluck a pastry off the tray, biting into it with grudging reluctance. Landen immediately goes for two. The crisp shell gives way to a rich, velvety cream that floods my senses, so decadent it makes my head spin. The taste lingers, sweet and sinful, pulling an involuntary sound of appreciation from my throat. Before I realize it, I’ve taken another, then a third.

"Save some for the rest of us!" Alec teases, slinging an arm around my shoulders in a fleeting, playful hug. "I knew you’d like them." So you two enjoy the party, it was an honour to meet the woman that has managed to hold down the most elusive cock in the world."

Landen’s gaze lingers on my chewing mouth and suddenly the sweetness on my tongue feels like something poisonous. I look away instantly, cleaning away the crumbs crusting the corners of my mouth.

"I see you love those things just as much as I did."

I nearly choke when I see Vance making his way through the crowd. His shirt hangs loosely on his shoulders, completely open down the front to reveal a broad chest and the sharp lines of his V-cut. Each step sends the fabric fluttering, teasing with glimpses of bare skin. His tousled hair is effortlessly stylish, his movements smooth and confident—everything about him feels like a deliberate mockery of Landen.

Landen’s expression tightens, his smug veneer cracking just enough to show the indignation simmering underneath. Vance’s smirk sharpens, a wicked gleam in his eye, as if delighting in needling his brother without uttering a single word.

It’s almost uncanny, seeing Vance like this. Gone is the polished image of the man in his high-end suits, the perfect businessman. Here, he looks disarmingly like Landen, the playboy with too much charm and not enough restraint.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, the words spilling out with the rush of relief, giddy with excitement.

Vance’s eyes spot something that he seems to mentally mark before his gaze lands on me as if I’m the only thing in focus, his expression softens into one of almost comfortable amusement.

"Funny," Landen says acidly, "I was about to ask the same thing. We don’t exactly run in the same circles," Landen cuts in, every word a barb aimed at his brother.

"You’re right," Vance replies with a sly grin. "My friends prefer boardrooms to bedrooms."

Landen’s jaw clenches, but Vance doesn’t wait for a retort. He pivots with an air of languid confidence, plucking two shots off a passing server’s tray without breaking her stride. "But I was in the neighborhood," he continues, turning back to us, his smirk deepening. "Thought I’d stop by."

He offers one of the shots to me, his hand steady, his eyes locked on mine. Landen’s gaze burns into me, but it’s Vance’s smirk that seals my decision for spite.

I take the shot.

"Cheers," Vance murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction as the tension between the brothers coils tighter, suffocating and electric.

As the liquid scorches down my throat, Vance’s eyes never leave me as a mind-churching sensation goes straight to my head—too fast and too intense. Vance takes my glass and tosses his at Landen and impulse makes him catch it, followed by another.

"You don’t mind if me and Mrs Vacheron dance, do you?" The blunt ambiguity is like a snake coiling tight.

Vance doesn’t even wait for his response before he steals me away, further into the house and to the hub of the clotted dancefloor.

"I thought you promised not to track me?" I say with a grin.

"Didn’t have to." He leans unnaturally close with a hand drawing me in closer by the hip. "If you dared to come out of the stone ages from time to time. You would not know that Alec made a post about the party and Landen responded hinting that he was going to bring you along."

"And flaunt me around like some kind of trophy?" I say with a disgusted grimace.

"He’s only wrong about one thing. You’re not a prize, but you’re something precious meant to be cherished."