Bloodbound: The Alliance
Chapter 91 - 93

Chapter 91: Chapter 93

Avara POV

"And now you know everything," I conclude.

Kelsey and I are being chauffeured, traveling through Italy in the rear cabin of a luxury car. Our first time in Italia, but our attention is shared between the two of us alone. I told her everything, everything I omitted, everything I know and even everything I’m unsure about.

"Were you seriously planning on staying with him?" she asks first.

I collapse against the Nappa leather, my shoulder resting against the seat with my torso twisted towards Kelsey. She looks back at me expectedly, lifting a quizzical brow like I’m in the wrong for stumbling into silence.

"Really, Kel? I told you that the man I fell stupidly in love with—killed my mother. And if he did not succeed in his attempt. My dad would be dead—and you’re focused about the relocation?"

She flips up an innocent hand like she’s about to make an oath of truth. "Not every day a girl gets gifted a palace—that’s all I’m saying. And honestly, as tragic as it is." She tilts forward to place an affectionate hand on my knee that’s propped up on the seat. "Though it is shocking and I’m so sorry about that. I’m somehow... not surprised. And you shouldn’t be either."

Insult sparks anger and my knee snaps out of her grasp.

Kelsey’s mouth opens as if she’s about to say something as she retracts her hand grudgingly.

"Did you somehow foresee that Botan killed my mother like a decade ago?"

She gives me this barely rueful look, remorseful that I’m upset at her but irritated that it’s over him. Ever since I made his existence known to her, intimately, her language and demeanor chills into something cold but with an apathy dragged by boredom.

"The only thing I foresaw was that he would hurt you. If not physically than emotionally because c’mon, Avie. He’s a criminal and to be one, especially on his level, I mean—what kind of man must he be if he has monsters that fear him?"

Her words make the world around me fade, sheer existence dissipating for an ephemeral moment. Not because it’s unexpected, but unseen. I mean, I’ve known this since the beginning, but only now the consequences of that comprehension seep into my reality like a hemorrhaging gut wound.

My heart jumps when the backseat door opens, unfurling like an obsidian wing. I didn’t even realise that the car had stopped. Kelsey looks like she’s about to say something again, but I turn to slip out of the car, awash by the pouring of sunlight as my breaths evaporate. The Vacheron family estate spans over a sprawling property worth the size of two palaces. The exterior of the main edifice is adorned with elaborate ornate decoration, fixed with intricate arches over arcades and doorways, marbelled columns, and pilasters with spirals etched with leaf designs.

A graying man in a butler’s uniform descends the primary staircase, coordinating a string of servants to transport our luggage inside.

"Miss Du Pont, I trust your journey here was pleasant," he says with refreshing energy as he makes pointed signals like an orchestra conductor to those passing us.

"We enjoyed it," I say with an effortless smile, including Kelsey with a glance.

"My name is Phillip, If you two will follow me, Master Colten would like a quick word before you two get settled in."

He gestures for us to follow, leading us up the grand, double-tiered staircase that arcs like the great unfolding of a tapestry. The massive entry doors give way to a sprawling foyer where gold filigree accents gleam against the pristine walls. Iridescent crystal ornaments catch the light, scattering white shimmers across polished floors, while sculptures stand sentinel in alcoves, their surfaces gleaming as if freshly polished. The vastness of the space seems to breathe, expanding into the soaring ceiling where the swiveling staircases meet on an elegant gallery above.

We move beyond this opulence, stepping into a narrower corridor that feels like a vein connecting the sprawling wings of the estate. From one of the many doors, an elderly man emerges, his Vicuna sweater draped with the kind of understated elegance that speaks of wealth. His bearing—stern but measured—immediately marks him as Colton’s father.

Philip stands to the side to greet him with a deferential nod.

"Avara," the old man croaks and his eyes wander over to Kelsey. "Hm, beautiful," he says not as a compliment but as a commentary like an observation that somehow surprises him. "And who might you be?"

"She is—"

"Is she in need of an interpreter?" he interjects with cutting bluntness.

My lips seal tightly.

Kelsey’s brows collide, a smart retort brewing on the brink that she reconsiders and leaves unsaid as the creases on her forehead unknot themselves, adjusting her expression to something of calm neutrality. So I thought.

"Quien soy no es asunto tuyo," Kelsys says in swift Spanish as she plasters on an empty smile. "Oh look, now you do need an interpreter."

"Kels," I chide with a rigid smile as Philip stares back at her wide-eyed like he’s about to pass out.

My eyes dart to Colton’s father who appraises her anew with a flicker of curiosity.

"Estás en mi casa, eso la convierte en mi negocio," he says back fluently.

She pivots sharply. "Then I’ll be more than happy to leave—"

"That won’t be necessary," he says with a steely voice, not flat nor sharp but with the crackling ring of a frozen blade. "You’re a guest and thus welcome. I never meant to make you feel that you weren’t."

Kelsey accepts the apology with a jaded nod. I elbow her fast in the ribs, triggering a response.

"I intended no disrespect in your own home," she forces out and it’s met with a courteous bow of his head.

"Your son has called for a meeting sir," Philip informs, "will you be joining?"

"And be party to his theatrics?" he scoffs wryly, a single sound so self-superior and aloof. "My time is better spent trimming the hedges." His face dips away as he shuffles down the path we came. "A pleasure, Avara."

"Likewise, Mr Vacheron," I say too quickly.

We step into a sprawling lounge that feels both intimate and grand, the open floor plan spilling out onto views of a picturesque garden framed by towering, cathedral-sized windows. Sunlight filters through, illuminating a kaleidoscope of blooms, their vibrant colors dotting the perfectly trimmed hedges and flowerbeds outside. The room is alive with soft murmurs, a tension humming beneath the surface.

My father and brothers are already here, having arrived ahead of us despite taking the same flight. Everyone is here, my father and brothers whose car arrived here faster than ours despite flying here together. And then there is the rest of the Vacherons. Colton sits like a king in the center, his demeanor regal yet foreboding, with Allison standing just behind him, a loyal shadow just like the day we first met. The sight stirs a cauldron of anger in my chest, bubbling hot and unforgiving. I avert my gaze, refusing to acknowledge the Vacheron brothers, rendering them invisible to me.

"Avara, welcome," Colton greets warmly, a touch of content on his lips. "Let’s get started, then." His tone sharpens, transitioning to the cold efficiency of business.

Allison’s lighthearted smile lands on me briefly before she turns away. She retrieves a neat stack of folders, her movements precise as she distributes them around the room. Her voice, bright and matter-of-fact, carries across the space.

"This is a comprehensive rundown of everything planned before the wedding—photo shoots, dinners, rehearsals. I’ve worked extensively with the wedding planner on every detail: outfits, décor, color schemes, backdrops, all the nuances men don’t care about."

"She’s not wrong," Silas mutters, barely glancing at the aesthetically arranged folder in his hands, giving it a lazy flick through.

Allison presses on, her energy undiminished. "We’ll start with a photoshoot of the lovely couple. A walk through the estate gardens, perhaps, or a moonlit picnic on the pier overlooking the lake. That would have been the plan if she were marrying Vance." Her gaze flickers toward Landen, a sharper edge cutting through her tone. "But for Landen, we need a different strategy. He’s decided to spearhead the media coverage, delegating himself that responsibility. So, he’ll review and approve all the images. That’s your task today." She punctuates her statement by pointing between Landen and me. "We want to see a spectacle, a fairytale love story with a dramatic twist."

Curiosity draws my gaze to Landen despite myself. The smugness I’ve come to expect is absent, replaced by something darker—a subtle smirk that feels loaded.