Page 41 of Tethered In Blood

Quinn scoffed, brushing past me as though the conversation was over. She bent down to pick up another log, but her hands trembled under the weight. Red skin stretched tightly over her knuckles, and the burns contrasted sharply with the smudges of soot.

Stubborn, reckless adaneth.

I reached out and caught her wrist before she could lift it. She tensed but didn’t pull away. Her gaze flicked to mine, wary yet steady. Despite her exhaustion, the fire in her eyes remained undimmed. She set her jaw, her posture defiant, even as her body betrayed its limits.

Damn it.

“I was wrong.”

Quinn froze. Her lips parted. My chest tightened, and I let her go.

She blinked once and tilted her head. “What?”

“You heard me.” I resisted the urge to grind my teeth.

A beat of silence stretched between us before she lifted the log, walked past me, and let it fall onto the burning pile with a dull thud.

“Is that all? Nothing else?”

She dusted her hands on her skirts. “You expect me to what? Say thank you?”

My fists clenched at my sides. “Most people recognize an apology when they hear it.”

She looked at me with a raised brow. “You didn’t apologize.”

I scowled. “It was implied.”

Quinn chuckled softly, shaking her head as she returned to the logs. “Go to the tavern, Sinclaire.”

My irritation spiked again. “I am not—”

She cut me off. “You’re better off gathering information. Drunk men say foolish things. If something is wrong in this village, you’ll hear it there.” I hesitated, watching her pick up another log. The slight, unmistakable wince on her face revealed her pain as her burnt hand gripped it.

My jaw flexed as I fought the urge to argue, to force her to stop before she tore her hands apart completely. I knew better. Nothing I said would have prevented her from working. A slow breath escaped my lips. “Fine.”

The tavern keeper served me a steaming bowl of spiced venison stew, with dark rye bread and a tankard of honeyed mead. Roasted juniper, smoked meat, warm spices, ale, and sweat mingled in the heavy air. Laughter and slurred conversations rumbled through the packed room, voices rising and falling in a drunken cadence.

My stomach twisted with restless unease as I stared at the food. Had the herbalist eaten anything other than the nuts and seeds on the desk? Had she even slept beyond those brief, unintentional naps since our arrival?

My chest burned.

Why did I care? She was stubborn. She had made that abundantly clear. I didn’t owe her.

But the image of her face when I had pinned her against that tree refused to leave my mind. Her wrists were too delicate in my grip, and deep, exhausted shadows rested beneath her eyes. My jaw clenched tighter as I forced myself to cut into the meat, grounding my focus in the sharp tang of juniper and smoke, the slight burn of spice.

Focus.

Information.

The tavern swelled with carefree voices, men deep in their cups. My gaze drifted across the room, settling on a group of knights at the far end. Young. Intoxicated. Speaking too freely. I dismissed them.

Until I heard her name.

My grip on the knife tightened.

“…She’s got that look, y’know?” one of them laughed, downing his ale. “All prim n’ proper, actin’ like she’s too good for any of us.”

“She’s an herbalist, not a noble,” another scoffed. “Bet she’s just waiting for the right man to put her in her place.”

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