All Chapters of THE POSSESSIVE BLOODLINE : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

DamonSomething seizes my chest. A sharp, staggering weight I can’t name.Hatred? Guilt? Regret so bitter it rots me from the inside out?I don’t know. I just know it burns like hell.The replay flashes again on the screen.Ingrid.Blood smearing the ivory silk of her blouse. A gunshot wound tearing through her shoulder. The scream. The fall. Her face—raw with fear. Her body crumpled like a flower set on fire.It’s on a loop now, tormenting me. Like a punishment I didn’t know I was ready to receive.The video call had been intercepted. One of our informants sent the clip after crashing the Bishop family’s emergency security feed. They had gathered in panic—Christopher, Maricel, the council. Whispers of a kidnapping. A betrayal. They think they’ve lost her.Maybe it was staged.But I know real pain.I saw it in her eyes.And I’m the reason it exists.Our security detail—the Chevre elite—has been deployed across the entire state. Satellites scanning, comms tapped, drones hovering over ab

JaxonHell didn’t need fire.Not when Jace Grey was in the room.I stood in that damn basement, surrounded by stone and silence and one man’s fury ready to swallow us whole. Damon Chevre sat slumped on the ground, his face barely recognizable—bruises swelling like tumors, blood dripping from his mouth, his nose, his pride. He was laughing earlier. Now, he was choking on teeth.Jace had gone completely off the rails.No warning. No build-up. No fucking hesitation.It was Ingrid’s face that did it.The way she looked after the act—barely breathing, gag marks across her lips, wrists raw from rope, and that tremble she was trying so hard to hide. But we all saw it.She was shaking. And that was all it took for Jace to snap.He launched himself at Damon like a goddamn warhead. Nothing could stop him—not Rick, not me, not the guards standing frozen with fear along the basement walls. All we could do was watch as fists met bone and rage turned to something terrifying.Damon tried to shield h

IngridThe engines roared like thunder on asphalt, cutting through the cold dusk. I held onto Jace’s waist, my fingers threading into the fabric of his jacket as the wind whipped across my cheeks. His bike revved louder—reckless, teasing.He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to hear him over the wind.“Hold on tight,” he murmured, his voice curling against my ear like smoke.Then we surged forward. Fast. Too fast.The kind of speed that made you gasp before you could scream. He tilted the bike dangerously close to the edge of the road on a curve, and I bit down a yelp. My legs clenched around him, and my hands instinctively gripped harder. The bastard was enjoying this.“You’re insane!” I shouted.He only laughed, that gravel-rich, untamed sound of his that did things to my bones. I hated him. And yet... hated how I didn’t hate this.The moment the Cabin came into view—dark wood and stone against a quiet clearing—I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The tr

IngridI didn’t expect to laugh today.Not after the basement. Not after the sting of chains and the taste of betrayal. But here I was, tucked in the middle of madness and masculine chaos—laughing like a girl who hadn’t bled.Jaxon and Rick were arguing over who could land a better knockout punch. I was roasting a half-burned hotdog on a stick, and Jace—being Jace—shut them both up by throwing a knife between their feet.I screamed. The knife embedded into the soil with a dull thud.They roared with laughter. Rick called him a psycho. Jace just grinned without looking up.That was their language. Blunt force and reckless grins. The kind that told me this—whatever “this” was—was their version of home.I sat cross-legged on the grass in Rick’s oversized shirt, feet bare, hair a mess, skin still bruised from what I survived. And for a stupid, stolen moment, it all felt light. Like breathing after suffocating.But it didn’t last.Because I remembered.He is still here. In the basement. In

RickIn the Jeep, we tore through the woods like hell hounds were nipping at our tires.Nobody was following. The night is serene, very usual for a an almost forbidden place, actually. Yet.Because the boys will cover our backs. They know what to do.Protocol drills. Kill or be killed. Hold ground ‘til we disappear into the smoke.But something else had me cold.Ingrid.I was in the passenger seat—rifle at my feet, heart still climbing down from the gunfire—when I heard it.Short, sharp gasps.Then sharper.Then worse.Then choking.I leaned forward and saw her.Ingrid. Curled in the seat. Wedged between Jace’s thigh and the door. She wasn’t crying—she was hyperventilating. Palms to her mouth. Shoulders jerking. Eyes wide like she was watching something burn in slow motion.“Shit,” I muttered.Jace hadn’t noticed. Not yet. He was still gripping the wheel like it owed him blood, jaw locked and eyes on the rearview mirror. His trigger finger still twitching from putting ten bullets int