Page 56 of Tethered In Blood

Quinn flinched, her head whipping around to face me. Her wide pupils struggled to constrict as darkness swallowed the edges of her irises. Her gaze remained distant and unfocused while my voice pulled her from her reverie.

Unease pulsed through me.

For a moment, she stared. Uneven breaths escaped her when her lips parted, a sign that she had forgotten her words. Then she blinked, scoffed, and pulled herself out of it, except that her practiced and seamless reaction lacked the proper speed. “I know how to light a fire,” she muttered. “I just—” She cut herself off with a shake of her head and stood.

Then winced.

My eyes narrowed.

Pushing off the wall, I crossed the room in a few strides, kneeled, and picked up the kindling where she had left it. The tools felt cool in my hands, smooth from years of use. With a practiced flick, I struck them together. A breath of ember curled through the thirsty kindling before flames licked up the dry twigs. The logs followed, crackling as they yielded to the heat. The golden glow stretched outward, pushing back the restless darkness and chasing away the chill lingering in the room’s corners.

Quinn crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course, you would do it on the first try,” she sighed, watching the fire as if it had betrayed her.

I tossed the flint aside as the flames grew stronger.

She tilted her head, studying me with an intensity that sent goosebumps down my spine. Not mocking. Not challenging. Just… considering. The dazed look had vanished, but its ghost still lingered between us. “Is there anything you can’t do?” she asked.

I met her gaze, holding it as I deadpanned, “Make you stop talking.”

A startled snort escaped her. “I suppose so.”

The wind howled outside, rattling the walls with a restless energy. The wood groaned beneath me when I dropped into the chair, testing its strength before allowing my weight to settle into it. The tension in the room eased, growing quieter and allowing for easier breathing.

Quinn rubbed her arm, her fingers gliding over the bandages on her palm. Her gaze remained distant, lost in thought.

Silverfel.

Was that what occupied her thoughts? The moment she reopened the cut on her palm, despite my warning?

Her fingers flexed as though testing for pain. She wouldn’t speak unless she wanted to, so I shifted my attention to the fire and its shadows. Anywhere but her.

The glow vanished when she stepped in front of the hearth, her silhouette obstructing the faint light. I blinked, and my gaze lifted upward to the rag and a tin of salve in her hand.

A deep groan rumbled from my chest.

“Take it off,” she demanded.

She must have noticed the slashes in my tunic. Knives and arrows flew toward me as we left the ambush. They missed their mark, yet several had made a slice. Nothing deep. Nothing that required fussing over.

Rather than for her being hit or grazed by them, it had been the preferable outcome.

“I don’t need it.”

“I might as well check your stitches,” she insisted.

My muscles tensed. I had forgotten about those—the ones she restitched on our way to Silverfel, which nearly killed us because she insisted we stop. She distracted me; her gentle hands touched my skin, and I forgot how to think.

She reached for my sleeve.

I sighed and grabbed the hem of my tunic, yanking it over my head. A tingling sensation slid up my spine as the fabric brushed against my skin. It had become a peculiar habit: she insisted I remove my clothes, and I complied with her.

My focus centered on Quinn when she kneeled before me.

‘She’s got those big, pretty eyes. The kind that looks up at you all soft.’

My teeth ground together, and I averted my gaze from her. I shouldn’t have felt that searing, twisting anger in my chest, that possessiveness curling low and vicious within me. It wasn’t my place.

Not after what I had done.

---