Page 84 of Tethered In Blood

His nostrils flared. Frustration bled into his stance, into the strain in his shoulders. “For fuck’s sake, Herbalist,” he pleaded, voice dipping lower. “Let him treat you.”

“Fine!” The word flew out harsher than I intended. My whole body trembled from the effort to keep myself together. Oberon sighed and passed a hand over his face. His posture eased… Until I glared at the physician.

“Cut the back of my dress. I won’t take it off.”

The physician hesitated. “It would be better if—”

“I. Won’t.” I ground the words through clenched teeth, daring him to argue.

Oberon’s brows furrowed deeper. His jaw set, and his arms folded over his chest. His eyes flicked between the physician and me, but I refused to meet his gaze. My breathing was still shallow. My pulse was still spiked.

“And don’t say anything,” I warned, voice trembling with quiet venom. “Either of you.”

Silence draped over the room. Oberon’s eyes narrowed. He looked at me too hard, as if he attempted to read something in my expression that I refused to give him.

My fingers tightened around the sheets again when the physician left, gripping so tight that my knuckles ached. I couldn’t stop shaking.

Gods, Eden, get it together.

“Saints,” Oberon sighed. The sound of buckles echoed through the room, followed by the clatter of his sword in its sheath and a softthunknearby. The bed shifted, and my head snapped up.

Oberon sat before me, legs bent and spread apart, with his back against the wall. He watched me for a long beat before lifting his arms in invitation. “Come here, Dilthen Doe.”

The door opened, and I went rigid. My breath hitched, caught somewhere between my ribs, refusing to move.

The smell of wet stone and expensive cologne enveloped my senses. The flicker of candlelight cast long, stretching shadows. The soft scrape of boots over the floor echoed through my skull. A voice, low, smooth, and dangerous in its patience, slithered through my mind. “You keep fighting, Darling.”

Marcus’s fingers brushed over my shoulder, featherlight and deceptively gentle. A mockery of comfort. A reminder that he could take his time. I shuddered, but I couldn’t move. I was caught.

Tight, leather-bound hands settled on my wrists.

“Be still.” A command. A law.

My pulse throbbed low in my throat, but my body refused to obey me. My limbs remained locked, frozen beneath his hold. This was how he liked it. Not the screaming. Not the struggling. But when the fight drained out of me, leaving only resignation.

I wanted to claw my way out. To rip free, to run, but there was nowhere to go. There had never been. His fingers pressed just enough to make sure I knew he was in control. I pressed my eyes tight, my body burning with shame, with rage, with helplessness.

Move.

MOVE.

DO SOMETHING.

But I could only tremble.

Marcus hummed, pleased. “Much better.” The pressure of his hands, the slow cadence of his breath, and the crushing reality that I was nothing more than a possession. “You belong to me, Eden.”

No.

No, no, no—

My shaking hands fisted in the sheets. My throat burned with the ghost of words I had never screamed.

I wasn’t there.

I wasn’t—

“Quinn.”

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