Page 27 of Tethered In Blood

Shifting my weight to my good side, I scoffed. “I didn’t have time to sit around a miserable infirmary.”

Quinn closed her eyes and took a slow, deliberate breath, as ifIwere the one testingherpatience. When she opened them again, they appeared calm and calculating. She wouldn’t let it go. “Why didn’t you go before we left?”

Because I didn’t want Calder prying into my business, and I wanted to avoid seeing her there before I had to see her every day.I rolled my shoulders with feigned indifference. “I didn’t want to deal with Calder nagging me.”

Her lips pursed before she muttered, “A lot of good that did you.” I expected more arguing, for her to keep digging, pushing, and demanding. Instead, she stepped around me and moved toward Neryth. Her fingers brushed against the buckles of the saddlebag, grazing the leather with deliberate intent, before she turned and glared at me. “Take it off.”

I scowled. “Excuse me?”

She raised an unimpressed brow. “Your shirt, Sir Oberon Sinclaire,” she articulated.

“I’m fine.”

She stepped closer. “You’re bleeding through it.” I glanced at my aching shoulder. Small, undeniable dark blotches seeped through the fabric.

Quinn crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one side, watching me with an expectancy that made my blood heat. “You can either remove it yourself, or I can remove it for you.”

I huffed a quiet, bitter breath. “You’re insufferable.”

She smiled sweetly. “Andyouare terrible at hiding injuries. Take. It. Off.”

10

Eden

THEEVENINGAIRcarrieda crisp bite, a quiet warning of the creeping night. Gold and crimson stretched in molten threads over the river’s surface. The dying sun spilled fire across the slow-moving current. Damp soil mingled with distant brine, thickened by the murmur of insects. Emberwings flickered in and out of sight, pulsing with amber light. Shadows lengthened through the underbrush where unseen creatures stirred, their rustling drowned beneath the rhythmic croak of dusk-born toads.

Oberon shifted his weight. His jaw ticked, a muscle twitched in his cheek, and his brow drew. “What?”

“Are you obstinateanddeaf?“ I shot back, my voice edged with command. “Take your shirt off, Sinclaire. I’m not asking. If it’s bleeding enough for me to see through black fabric, it needs to be restitched and wrapped.”

He stared at me, unreadable. For a heartbeat, I expected refusal—a sharp retort, the usual pushback. But his shoulders lifted in a slow, resigned sigh, and his fingers moved to the laces of his tunic. The knot came undone with a single pull.

“Fine.”

I gestured to a fallen log along the riverbank, its bark worn smooth by time and the elements. “Sit. I’ll be unsteady if I have to stitch like this.”

He scoffed but obeyed, moving with the signature fluid grace of a predator, always ready to strike. As he pulled the tunic over his head, the last light of the sun caught along the contours of his body, gilding him in gold. I swallowed hard as the glow painted him in shades of copper and ember. His back resembled a battlefield—each scar a silvered thread woven across otherwise unmarred strength. Broad shoulders, muscles shaped by discipline rather than vanity, tapered into a lean, dangerous frame. He looked forged, elemental. A force contained within skin.

My gaze dragged lower.

Focus.

Fingers tightening around my satchel strap, I forced my attention away, pulling free a needle, thread, and rag. The motions steadied me until my eyes landed on the wound. The torn flesh, the blood, the iron in the air. It felt too close, too known. The past curled its fingers into the present. Phantom pain rose from scars that never faded.

Oberon shifted behind me, breaking the spell. I took a deep breath and dipped the rag into the river. The water swirled red as I wrung it out. His jaw tightened when I pressed it to his side, and his shoulders flexed, restrained beneath my touch.

“Try not to move,” I murmured.

He exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. “Not my first wound, Dilthen Doe.”

That slur again. He wouldn’t find satisfaction in my reaction. Acknowledging the name would only encourage him. Perhaps if I ignored it, he would let it go.

Silence settled between us as I cleaned the wound, carefully assessing the damage. The cut had split open again. Its jagged edges gaped to expose raw, pink flesh. The skin around it was flushed and swollen, an angry red that made me wince. It hadn’t become infected yet, but it had grown close. It needed fresh stitches and ointment to stop it from worsening.

I steadied my hands and threaded the needle.

Oberon sat unnervingly still. His eyes observed me, but I didn’t dare look back. If I met his gaze, I might lose track of what I was doing. I needed to concentrate.

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