Page 85 of Tethered In Blood

A shudder ripped through me, my breathing shallow and uneven. The voice wasn’t Marcus’s. It wasn’t one oftheirs.It cut through the noise in my skull and brought me back to the present.

I blinked as my surroundings shifted back into place. Oberon was still facing me, still waiting. His forearms rested on his knees, his fingers curled into loose fists, tension coiled in every line of his body, and his gaze burned with intensity.

No.

He was angry.

He was angry at me.

I was a burden again. A problem to be fixed.

I wanted to shrink under its weight, under the frustration and scrutiny.

The physician’s voice pulled me back again. “It may be best if you hold her in place.” My body locked up, and my fingers twitched.

No.

No, no, no.

My hands weren’t mine anymore. They were distant. Bruised wrists. Shackles. The cool bite of metal cut into my skin, chained me, and kept me still. The walls blurred. My pulse roared.

“Quinn, look at me.” My eyes snapped to Oberon’s. Keeping me here. That’s what he was doing. He extended his arms again and waited. “Come here.” It wasn’t an order, but it left no room for argument.

My body refused at first. My instincts screamed to recoil, to curl inward, and to brace for impact, but I forced myself to move.

The first movement felt impossible, and the second was even more challenging. But I pressed forward until my forehead found his shoulder. His warmth seeped through the layers between us, a tether within the drowning void. I clutched at his tunic, desperate for something tangible, something real. His smell—leather, steel, and storm-soaked air—wrapped around me, a reminder that I wasn’t there.

I was here. With him.His hands found my arms, keeping me in place without trapping me. I drew in a breath and held it as I braced myself for the inevitable.

“The fabric needs to be cut now,” the physician announced. His voice was measured as if I were volatile. LikeIwas the danger in the room.

Oberon shifted beneath me, followed by a featherlight graze against the side of my neck. A whisper of sensation so delicate that it startled me. He gathered my hair, brushed it over my shoulder, and pulled it away from my back. I exhaled slowly and allowed my shoulders to loosen.

For a moment, just a moment, I wasn’t drowning.

Cool metal touched the nape of my neck, and I flinched. Oberon’s hands tightened on my arms enough to remind me he was still there. My grip on his shirt tightened in response, clinging to my sole connection in the present. Air rushed in, licking over raw, exposed skin as the fabric peeled away from my back. My knuckles turned white, and I winced as a sharp sting flared along the wound. A brief but heavy pause hung in the air, followed by a subtle shift of his frame as he leaned forward and pressed against me.

Then, every muscle in his body went rigid.

A deep, raw, and primal vibration rumbled through his chest. A low, quietgrowl smothered by restraint. Anger in its most lethal form. The sound cut off when he inhaled, then exhaled in measured and forced breaths, as if he were shoving the rage back, caging it inside before it could tear free. But his body remained taut, locked in an unnatural stillness that felt more dangerous than any outburst.

He saw them.

My stomach twisted as a fresh wave of raw shame surged up, crashed against my ribs, and hollowed out my chest. My fists clenched against his shirt, desperate to anchor myself, to stop the spiral before it consumed me.

He must have been disgusted.

How could he not?

He must have realized that a court herbalist was too broken to tend to others, too damaged to stand at his side, to accompany him and cause him this. I was a burden. I had always been a burden. He must have felt it, too, just astheydid. They all did. He must have regretted bringing me.

The clinking of metal cut off my thoughts. Followed by the soft pop of a bottle opening. “I’m going to clean and numb the area now,” the physician announced.

Something cool touched my back, and I flinched. The contact jolted through me in a shockwave. Then came a sharp, searing bite that ripped me from the present. The past slammed into me. It bled through the walls, through my skin, sinking its claws into my mind and dragging me backward. I was drowning in it.

The stone floor was chilled beneath my knees. The air was filled with the stench of medicinal herbs, but they did nothing to mask the underlying smell of my blood.

Marcus stood before me, arms crossed, with amusement playing at the corners of his sharp mouth. “You should stop pretending, Eden,” he mused, his voice smooth and indulgent. “You’re no healer.” I clenched my jaw. My breath was fast and uneven. I didn’t look at him. I refused to grant him that satisfaction.

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