Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 73 - 75

Chapter 73: Chapter 75

The sentiment erases my frown as Vance takes my hand, spinning me into an effortless twirl. Laughter bursts from my chest as we fall into a spirited rhythm, moving together like kindred spirits existing beyond this plain—transcendent from time. The crowd, the pounding music, the heavy air—all of it dissolves. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard, the kind that makes my stomach ache. It feels reckless and free, like dancing on the edge of a precipice, daring the world to pull me back or push me over.

"You dance like a politician at a rally," Vance teases, his grin crooked and charming, his voice giddy with the haze of the moment.

"And you dance like you’re about to go into cardiac arrest," I counter, breathless and grinning.

We collapse into laughter, leaning into each other, our bodies shaking with unbridled joy. But then the music shifts, the beat slowing into something sultry, a rhythm that curls around us like smoke. Vance doesn’t hesitate; his hands find my waist as he draws me closer. His presence is magnetic, almost disarming, and I find myself unable to meet his gaze. My pulse thrums beneath my skin, caught in a dangerous current.

"Mind if I cut in?"

The words pierce through the moment like a jagged blade. A hand grips mine, spinning me out of Vance’s grasp and straight into Landen. His movements are smooth as he slides my arms over his shoulders. He grins, his smug confidence burning into me, but it’s the weight of Vance behind me that sends the world tilting.

Vance doesn’t back away. Instead, he closes in, his hands gripping my hips firmly, possessively, pulling me flush against him. My balance falters, and I fall into his hold, my head tipping back to rest against his shoulder. His lips brush the column of my neck, feather-light kisses whispering to my collarbone. I can’t see him, but I feel him—his arousal, his presence, his heat, the way his eyes flick upward to challenge Landen.

Landen steps closer, his smirk unwavering as he leans in. His face dips into the crook of my other shoulder, his breath searing against my skin as his lips trail a heated path upward, my head forced straight as each brother claims his side.

A lance of clarity slices through the haze like ice water on my overheated senses. I wrench myself free, the sudden loss of their touch a sharp contrast to the heat that still lingers. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I stumble away, disoriented and appalled. My skin feels alight with confusion and shame, and yet, beneath it all, the remnants of the haze refuse to let me go.

One shot. That’s all I had, and yet the room tilts and sways as if I’ve had a dozen. My hands tremble as I push through the crowd, desperate to escape the suffocating mix of desire and betrayal.

I would never do—allow such a thing—but why did I?

I go for the entrance but Alec obstructs my path with an obnoxious laugh. "Leaving so soon?" he asks with a shark-like grin, clear that he has no intention of letting me leave.

I whip around to see the brothers bulldozing their way towards me. I jerk to the side as I scramble towards the staircase, but suddenly a herculean guard halts me.

"Let her pass!" Alec allows.

I stumble up the steps, each one like scaling a cliff as my legs tremble beneath me. My breath rasps in my throat, my chest tight and heavy. The world tilts, walls blurring and shifting as I claw my way forward, tripping but refusing to fall. At last, I shove open a door and collapse into a bedroom. My heart pounds erratically, a drumbeat of panic and confusion. I whirl around just as Vance stumbles in after me, his face ashen, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. He looks as wrong as I feel—not sick, but deeply, unmistakably off.

Behind him, Landen saunters in with a villainous laugh that seems to echo and warp in my ears.

"What did you do?" Vance’s voice is sharp but strained, his hand gripping his forehead as if to steady himself.

"Spike my drink again?" I add, my voice a rasp, raw with accusation.

Landen’s grin stretches wider, his teeth gleaming like a predator savoring his prey. "I didn’t have to," he says cryptically, shrugging with maddening ease. "How could I possibly predict which glass you’d take or which tray you’d choose? That you’d even drink anything at all."

His words settle like a shadow, and Vance’s face shifts from anger to dawning horror. "The pastries," he breathes, the realization sharp and brittle in the room.

Landen’s grin curls wickedly. "Grandma’s secret recipe. Always a hit—especially with a special ingredient." He pauses, savoring the moment before dropping the words like a guillotine. "A mind-fuck opioid."

Vance lunges before the word fully registers, his fists twisting the lapels of Landen’s shirt.

"You sick fuck!" he snarls, his voice crackling with fury.

Landen doesn’t flinch. He flips his hands up in mock innocence, his smirk never wavering. "If you want someone to blame, blame yourself. No one told you to eat them."

I trudge forward, every step a monumental effort, my limbs heavy and uncooperative. I reach out, placing a trembling hand on Vance’s arm, desperate to stop the spiral. "Let him go," I plead, though my voice wavers like a whisper lost in a storm.

Landen’s eyes snap to mine, gleaming with malice and something deeper—something possessive. "You heard my wife," he says smoothly, his tone dripping with mockery.

A fresh wave of dizziness slams into me, sharper and heavier than the last, and my knees buckle. I stumble back, barely catching myself on the edge of the bed. My head swims, the edges of the world curling inward, and I feel Landen’s eyes boring into me like twin fires. His laughter rings out again, dark and low, as I struggle to keep myself anchored in the suffocating haze.

***

Consciousness seeps in slowly, my fingers stroking through hair, a head resting on my stomach—a head? Panic snaps me awake and I open my eyes to see Vance’s half-naked full weight anchoring me to the bed, asleep on top of me. I pat his head until he stirs, and he lifts his face with narrowed eyes before they explode at the sight. Not because of me. But it’s because I’m not propped up by a pillow—no, most of my rear is rested on Landen’s front, between his open legs with the back of my head perched on his groin.

Vance jolts up, scrambling off the bed, fierce and fast. I bolt upright, flipping around to catch a glimpse of Landen’s lazy grin as I clamber off him as if I were on a bed of flames.

Landen yawns too casually. "Is there an emergency I don’t know about?"

"Other than I was too many inches too close to my own brother’s dick," Vance spits out. "I can think of several more."

The playboy alter ego wore off like the haze as Vance hurries for his shirt cast on the floor, fast fingers working to button it up to the high collar with the urgency to piece himself back together. And restore the facade of all that is stoic and sophisticated. Landen, a picture of smug satisfaction as he watches. His amusement is cruel and cutting, his eyes gleaming with triumph. He doesn’t need to say a word; the air hums with his silent proclamation—proof no one could be him or best him.

Both Vance and Landen are or were shirtless, even though I have no memory of them stripping off any layers. My hands fly to myself—groping past the torn material to feel my bra and underwear still on.

"Easy," Landen says with tainted reassurance. "Nothing happened." His eyes leap to Vance. And as a sick joke, he adds to clarify, "between either of us."

That is my last strike. I storm towards the door, but Vance catches my arm.

"Where are you going?"

"Far away as I can—I’m going home, and I’ll get there on my own." I wrench my arm away. "I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about pictures, public opinion or appearances. The only time I want to hear the name Vacheron is when I’m at the wedding altar. Then after that, I want you both out of my life."

***

The grand hall is as gilded as my father’s ego, with its vaulted ceilings and gilt chandeliers casting a stately glow over the gathered crowd. The air is crackling with anticipation, murmurs rippling through the attendees like a tide, each whisper carrying our name. Outside, the press corps clamors for angles and statements, their cameras flashing in rapid bursts, capturing the culmination of months of campaigning powerfully backed by Colton Vacheron—my father’s very own Elon Musk.

On stage, the seal of the state looms large against a backdrop of muted patriotism—deep blues and silvers accented with sharp red streaks. The podium bears the official insignia, flanked by flags swaying gently in the air-conditioned room. Rows of dignitaries, council members, and political strategists sit shoulder to shoulder, their polished smiles disguising the undercurrent of rivalry and alliances forming over handshakes and whispered promises.

I recede from the drapings where my brothers and I await backstage.

"Still not talking?" Luciano tries again.

"You tell me who gave you that black eye and I will." I stare back at him expectedly and only silence ensues. "That’s what I thought."

"Someone’s feeling spicy today," Silas jeers. "Where’s daddy’s good girl—what no smile?"

"She’s saving it for her fiance," Luciano says with a weathered smile.

"Which one?" Silas retorts and they share a howl of laughter.

Frustration flickering, but I stare back at them wordlessly. The nondescript door clanks open and a guard walks in, whispering into the hem of his suit jacket. Our father follows along with the rest of the security team. So ingrained with political procedure and decorum, he greets his son with a firm handshake and a quick clap to the shoulder.

"Do we look like voters to you?" Silas jokes, still holding onto his hand.

"I’m not gonna lie that handshake made me feel like a statesman," Luciano adds with a half-hearted smile.

"I’m sorry, boys," my dad says as he pulls Silas in for an all-enveloping hug. "I’m kind of on autopilot here. I’ve been giving handshakes and sharing nods since dawn—I wasn’t thinking."

He goes back to embrace Luciano, but he goes rigid in his arms before he forces himself to reciprocate his hug. Luciano’s lips pull into a smile with the same strain of drawing an elastic wide until its most stiff limit. He comes over to peck my temple and I smile obligatorily as he passes by, brushing an affectionate hand over my arm.