Page 90 of Tethered In Blood

A sick, familiar feeling curled through my gut. “Great,” I muttered, leaning forward against the desk. “Because that’s gone so well for us so far.”

Oberon let out a humorless huff. “I’m glad we agree.”

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, rubbing hard as if I could wipe away the exhaustion, the weight that clung to me. “When?”

“First light.”

I nodded, forcing my expression to be neutral. I should have known there would be no time to recover or catch one’s breath. We never got that luxury, but Gods, I was tired. Not just the tiredness that settled in muscles and joints, but the kind that seeped into bones—a slow, sinking weight that no willpower shook.

Oberon stepped closer, setting the letter down with deliberate precision as if its weight mattered. His gaze flicked over my face, sharp and assessing, lingering just a little too long. The scrutiny was a blade, cutting through the last shreds of composure I had left.

He always saw too much. He could read the exhaustion in my features and see through the walls I had built as if they weren’t even there. I hated that about him.

“You should sleep.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

A quiet, humorless laugh slipped from my lips. “Right. Because that’s working for me.”

His jaw tensed, and the silver in his irises flickered.

He wanted to say something. It was in the slight shift of his stance and how his fingers curled at his sides. Maybe he wanted to discuss how I had woken up gasping the last two nights, breath stolen by things I couldn’t escape. Perhaps he wanted to comment on how I guarded the stitches on my back or my inability to rest.

He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face as if to scrub something away.

Frustration? Exhaustion? Anger?

“Just be ready.” His voice was clipped, final. I nodded once, gripping the edge of the table, watching as he turned for the door. But he hesitated at the threshold. His shoulders stiffened, tension running through him, something unsaid still lodged between his ribs.

“The nightmares.” The words were low, quieter. “They’re getting worse.”

A lump formed in my throat. I hated he knew. Hated that he had noticed. No matter how much distance I tried to put between my suffering and his perception, it was never enough.

“Sinclaire—”

But he was already gone.

27

Eden

ISTRETCHEDMYarmsover my head and rolled my shoulders as I stepped onto the stable grounds. The crisp morning air was another layer of unsympathetic reality poured over me. Exhaustion clung to me, every muscle heavy and reluctant. The nightmares had kept me up again. Each time I closed my eyes, I was dragged back into that room where the phantom sting of old wounds mingled with the fresh ache in my back. Despite the days that had passed, I could still feel Oberon’s hands on my arms, steadying me and keeping me tethered to this brutal world.

Now, he barely spoke to me. I yawned so hard that it turned into a groan, my hand rubbing my temples as I attempted to shake off the lingering remnants of sleep and sorrow. Something in the air shifted, a subtle change that made my skin prickle.

Oberon stood by Neryth, fastening the last of our bags to the saddle. His movements were precise—tightening straps, checking buckles—yet his stony gaze was fixed on me, as though I were nothing more than a fault line in his composure. The sting of his silence was tangible, a raw, gnawing ache that echoed my inner turmoil.

It was maddening how much it hurt.

Caught between exhaustion and a simmering sense of rejection, I blinked against the fatigue and frowned. I wanted to lash out, to demand he say whatever was festering behind that unreadable stare, but I swallowed the urge. I forced myself not to shrink beneath the weight of his assessment.

“You look like shit,” he clipped.

I scoffed, managing a humorless chuckle as I ran a hand through my hair. “Thanks,” I replied, the sarcasm thick enough to taste. In that brief exchange lay an entire conversation of unsaid words, of longing for closeness and the bitter acceptance of distance.

Oberon grunted and shook his head as he turned back to adjust the saddle. “You sure you won’t pass out in the middle of this one?” His tone was dry, edged with the usual bite, but there was weight and hesitation beneath it. His knuckles were pale around the leather strap, and his movements lacked their usual effortless precision.

He was frustrated he was stuck with me for another assignment, wasn't he? Why wouldn't he be?

Rolling my shoulders, I forced a smirk. “If I do, just prop me up against a tree and keep going.”

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