Page 58 of Tethered In Blood

Why did she torment me in ways that no one else ever had?

A stillness lingered between us, stretched tight. Her soft voice shattered it. “Are you…” She hesitated, her brow furrowing. My entire body went rigid, hyper-aware of her every movement. “Are you an assassin?”

My thoughts blanked.

I blinked. Her words took a moment to register. She had rendered me speechless once again. My brows furrowed. “What?”

She crossed her arms, the warmth of her touch a fading memory. I hated losing it more than I wanted to acknowledge. “Is that why you’re so grumpy, dark, and mysterious? It all makes sense now.”

I should have seen this coming. After Silverfel, after the way she pieced together every puzzle with her clever, infuriating mind, I found it surprising that it took her so long to uncover the truth.

“Your armor when I first arrived at the castle. Your uniform.” She waved a finger at me, gesturing to my appearance. “Your dark and mysterious aura, your throwing knives, and the way you discovered that trap before the ambush.” She rattled them off with excitement, as if thrilled by her discovery.

Then, with a sharp gasp, her lips curled into an overly pleased grin. “Oh, gods. You thought I might be a sinister assassin or something, too, didn’t you?” She barked a laugh, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “That’s why you slammed me against that tree. You give me too much credit, Sinclaire… I think I like it.”

My stomach twisted.

Hi fucking insufferable adaneth.

This fucking insufferable adaneth.

My tongue pressed to my canine, eyes narrowing. “What?” Her expression dulled. “Did I get it wrong?”

I huffed. “Aren’t you afraid?” Rising to my feet, I grabbed my tunic and slipped it over my head.

She blinked. “Of what?”

My teeth ground together as I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. The firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across her face as I glared at her. “Of me, Dilthen Doe,” I snarled. “Because if you aren’t, you should be.”

Her brows furrowed, but she didn’t back down. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her shoulders squared, and her gaze met mine with unwavering resolve. “You don’t scare me.” The words struck deep in my chest.

“If you harbor death within you,” she continued, “then I shall dance with him. Your darkness is what draws me in. Like a moth to a flame, you captivate my soul, and I am drawn to you in ways I cannot explain. So no, Oberon Sinclaire, I am not afraid of you.”

A sharp breath escaped my lungs. My heartbeat drummed in my ears, mirroring the slow, burning tension that vibrated between us. It wrapped around my ribs with an unspoken force, drawing me toward her when I should have stepped away.

She remained still and unflinching.

And that just made it worse.

“You don’t know what I have done, Dilthen Doe,” I warned, my voice low, almost guttural. The weight of my past hung between us, intensifying with every breath. “The people I have hunted. The ones I have silenced. The things I have had to do to survive.”

Her eyes searched mine. I waited for the unavoidable flicker of fear, for the moment she would understand and see my true nature.

Yet she didn’t recoil or tremble.

Her expression softened. “I understand what it means to be hunted,” she countered. “I understand what it means to do whatever is necessary to survive.”

I stepped forward, narrowing the space between us until only heat and shadow remained. My fingers lifted to brush over the area on her jaw where the bruises still lingered, dark reminders of that bastard knight’s touch. A slow, aching pull twisted inside me as my thumb ghosted over the bruised skin, light as a breath.

She shivered.

“You should be afraid,” I murmured, my voice dangerously soft. “I’ve killed men for less than what that bastard did to you in Silverfel.” My gaze fell to the mark, the ugly proof of his touch, and my chest tightened. “For much less.”

She scoffed. “Do you think I haven’t figured that out?”

My fingers curled against her skin, just enough to feel the warmth beneath the bruises, the proof of her presence. “I don’t regret it,” I admitted. The words, though soft-spoken, pierced the thick air between us with the threat they carried. “Not a single one.”

Her lips parted as if she intended to challenge me, perhaps to pry more from me. After a moment, she enunciated, “I am not afraid of you, Oberon Sinclaire.” The words sent a painful sensation ripping through my ribs.

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