Page 48 of Tethered In Blood

Fatigue was a luxury I had never been allowed. My parents taught me that. Marcus reinforced it. Pain became my instructor, my reality.

If I stopped, I lost. If I faltered, I suffered. If I slowed, I paid the price. So, I adapted. I trained my body to move when it wanted to collapse, to work when exhaustion blurred my vision. I learned to ignore the slow, creeping drag of fatigue, to push past the limits that others acknowledged. I kept going because even if it was just one more patient, one more person, I could help them.

Because no one had done it for me.

Behind me, Oberon huffed. The sound sliced through the silence, a wordless statement in itself. Yet he didn’t stop me. Of course, he wouldn’t. He knew better. He understood that no matter how often he urged me to rest, I wouldn’t listen. Not when people were still suffering.

The knights’ quarters smelled of sweat, aged herbs, and the acrid bite of alcohol. The hearth burned with clean wood, the fire brighter, casting jagged shadows across the wooden beams.

I adjusted my satchel, squared my shoulders, and entered.

Soft murmurs filled the air—restless knights shifting in their cots, the rustle of blankets as bodies turned in fitful sleep, and the groggy mutterings of men caught in that fragile space between wakefulness and oblivion. The smell of sweat, stale ale, and lingering herbs thickened the atmosphere, pressing against my senses. Several knights had succumbed to unconsciousness after drowning themselves in celebration until they could take no more. Others stirred as I passed, blinking sluggishly, their gazes unfocused and their minds still clouded by exhaustion and drink.

I moved through the room in silence, my hands working on instinct—pressing the backs of my fingers to fevered foreheads, checking pulses that thudded too weakly, and smoothing blankets that feverish patients had kicked aside. A few knights murmured quiet thanks, but most were too far gone to notice my presence. That was fine; I didn’t need gratitude.

But my body slowed down. My thoughts dragged; each movement required more effort, and every breath felt heavier. I had pushed myself too far again, but stopping wasn’t an option.

There was a sudden shift in the air, a ripple of tension so thick it felt suffocating, that unmistakable prickle of being watched.

I pushed myself to keep moving, my fingers steady as I completed the examination of the knight before me, but my senses expanded outward, searching. My heartbeat quickened.

I lifted my gaze and scanned the room.

Oberon stood near the entrance, motionless—too motionless. Rigid tension gripped his broad shoulders, and his chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths. He clenched his jaw, and I half expected to hear his teeth grinding together.

A knot formed in my stomach when I followed his line of sight.

Valdier.

The arrogant knight who had gripped my face stood at the back of the room, speaking to two younger knights in hushed tones. His stance was casual, and his expression relaxed. He didn’t even glance our way.

Dark bruises marred his jaw and cheekbone in unsightly shades of purple and blue. Those bruises hadn’t been there before. My gaze flicked back to Oberon.

His expression was a facade of stony indifference. Yet, fury burned in his eyes.

Whatever had happened to Valdier, it hadn’t been enough. He contemplated completing what he had begun. A tense sigh escaped my lips, softened by the crackling hearth and the restless whispers of the surrounding knights.

I returned my attention to my work, moving to the next cot and willing myself to ignore the storm brewing behind me—the unspoken violence, the slow, simmering aggression rolling off Oberon in waves. I didn’t have time to mull over his temper or analyze how those bruises on Valdier’s face sent a strange, unsettling heat curling low in my stomach; a feeling I couldn’t put into words and couldn’t push away.

There was no time to reflect on the fact that he had done that because of me. I had spent far too much time trying to understand Oberon Sinclaire.

The cots nearest to the hearth flickered in the firelight, with the warmth casting long, wavering shadows along the stone walls. A slow inhale broke the silence as I approached the knight in the worst condition. There was a shift beneath the blankets. His chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths.

His eyelids fluttered. His gaze was unfocused, still caught in the haze of sleep, but when he noticed me, his expression changed. His breath hitched, and his lips parted as if he had forgotten how to speak. His eyes widened, filling with raw wonder.

I faltered.

No one had ever gazed at me like that.

Not my parents, who viewed me as a burden, a nuisance, ugly in both form and presence—an obligation rather than a daughter. They looked at me with unsympathetic detachment, as if I were nothing more than a weight chained to their lives.

Not Marcus, who had treated me like a possession. A thing to own, to break, to control. A lie in the shape of a human, meant to be erased in private but paraded in public when it suited his image.

For as long as I could remember, I had been too much and never enough. Overly stubborn. Excessively plain. Quite inconvenient. I learned that my usefulness measured my worth; that my hands could heal, but my face could never inspire softness. My presence was tolerated at best and ignored at worst.

Yet this knight regarded me as though I were worthy of being noticed, as if I were more than merely my purpose.

“You’re awake!” I exclaimed. My fingers reached for his wrist, searching for his pulse and clinging to the comfort of routine. His gaze dropped to my hands, taking in the burns, the bruises, the raw, reddened skin that still throbbed and needed bandaging again after the fight in the woods. His brows furrowed when he reached out, grasping my hands.

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