Page 20 of Tethered In Blood

“Not something. Someone.” I crossed my arms. “The knight, Sir Sinclaire. He’s gone.”

Calder hummed as if it were the most unremarkable thing in the world. “Of course he is.”

My lips parted as I stared at her, my arms lowering in defeat. “He was poisoned.”

She met my gaze with an arched brow. “And?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words caught in my throat. He shouldn’t have been able to move. He shouldn’t have left. I wanted to understand how he managed it.

Calder rubbed her hands on her apron. “He always acts like that. He stumbles in, half alive, and is gone before regaining his health.” She shrugged. “I would bet quince that he’s already back to work.” She cocked her head as she watched me. “If you’re so curious, then watch him when you see him. He reopens his wounds with that stubbornness of his.”

I forced a smile. “I’m not curious. I’m just concerned for his safety, as an herbalist.”

She smirked.

I turned to leave and rolled my eyes when she could no longer see my face. It wasn’t my problem. I wasn’t his keeper. If he wanted to throw himself into a fight and reopen his wounds, that was his business. Still, the thought persisted. If he collapsed during training or bled out somewhere because he was too damn proud to rest… I had to tend to him. That was it. That was the only reason I cared.

“Wait, Quinn.” The sound of a heavy book closing and papers rustling in the wind filled the hush between us.

I turned back to face her.

“Go to the greenhouse; an herb appears to be out of place. Its roots may be strangling the others.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You are much better suited for this task than the other two.”

Caring for the plants had been more appealing than dealing with stubborn, deathly ill knights who vanished into the night. I nodded and left her office. With a frustrated sigh, I took my tools and gloves from the infirmary desk and walked out.

The morning air brought a slight chill against my skin, a coolness that did little to ease my deep fatigue. My limbs still felt heavy from lack of sleep, compounded by the weight of unanswered questions on my conscience. The cot had been empty. He had left. But how?

Soft shades of lavender and gold still painted the sky as the last traces of dawn clung to the horizon. I focus on the gravelly texture beneath my boots, allowing it to soothe me after the long night I spent battling the memories that clawed at me.

The instructions from Calder were straightforward—a simple task designed to give me a break from the stuffy infirmary air. I spent several days and nights cooped up there before the knight arrived. Perhaps I could have convinced him to stay and heal if I had been there when he woke.

The distinct clang of steel-on-steel cut through the quiet morning. My steps slowed when I approached the courtyard, captivated by the sparring match unfolding before me. Two figures moved with practiced motions, but my focus narrowed to just one of them.

Oberon Sinclaire moved with a grace that seemed impossible. It stunned me. His movements were precise and controlled. It wasn’t just skill; it was instinct. It was as if battle was not something he did, but something he was. Even when injured, he didn’t hesitate or falter. There was a recklessness in his movements, a quiet defiance that made it clear this was the only place he felt alive.

He was up and already moving. Already fighting. Less than a day ago, he had been half-dead in the infirmary. His fever was too high for him to stay conscious for more than a few breaths. But there he stood, swinging a sword as if he hadn’t been lying on a cot, bleeding out just hours ago.

But that wasn’t the source of the feeling that stirred in my chest. It was the distinct contours of his face, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, damp with sweat. With his sleeves rolled up, the taut muscles in his forearms flexed as he gripped the hilt of his sword. The slight parting of his lips as he exhaled, his chest rising and falling with steady, measured breaths.

It was the way he carried himself, as if he held the weight of the world on his shoulders and refused to let it break him. He had witnessed things no one else could comprehend. He fought even when there was no battle to be won. Gods help me, that was far more dangerous. Far more thrilling.

I’ve known it since I first saw him, scowling in the infirmary with those onyx eyes. But seeing him in this state—alive, focused, and challenging his opponent with quiet intensity—evoked feelings it shouldn’t have. He was rude, grumpy, and impossible to converse with without the urge to strangle him.

I should have walked away, gone straight to the greenhouse, as Calder requested, but my feet refused to budge.

His forearm muscles tensed as he gripped his sword, and his tunic clung to his body with every precise movement. It was absurd to stare. Yet, knowing that didn’t stop me, nor did the heat creeping up my neck.

The other man was dark-haired and broad-shouldered and wore a shit-eating grin. He swung his blade in a quick arc. Sinclaire parried one-handed, his grip steady but lacking the force I imagined he should have had with both arms.

“You’re slower today,” the man taunted as he stepped back. “Thought Fae blood made you stronger, Sinclaire.”

Fae blood?

Oberon huffed. “Stronger doesn’t mean invincible.”

The man smirked. “Right, right. We wouldn’t want to strain your delicate Fae heritage too much.”

Fae.

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