Page 94 of Tethered In Blood

Garrick chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender before stepping back. “Relax, Sinclaire. I’m going.” He winked at me with unwavering confidence, turned on his heel, and strode toward the nearest group of women with the ease of a man who had never been denied an audience.

I let out a slow breath and shook my head, pretending to refocus on my journal. But my pulse was still uneven, and my skin was too warm. The man was unbearable.

I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to steady. “We should ask the fishers.” It came out hoarse and weaker than I wanted. I clenched my jaw, frustrated with myself, with Garrick, and with the fact that I was still feeling the weight of his teasing and the simmering intensity of Oberon’s silence.

That suffocating silence lingered. I didn’t dare look at him, but his gaze burned into me. “Then let’s go.” His voice was calm and controlled, yet his irritation lay just beneath the surface. I nodded, jotting down “fishers—ask about sightings, voices in the fog” in my journal. I snapped the journal shut and stepped forward, Oberon’s presence falling into step beside me.

Even as I walked, the tightness in my chest refused to ease. The unspoken weight between us pressed down on me. I needed to concentrate, to decipher this damn village, and to stop being so affected by them both.

The smell of salt and damp wood grew heavier as we neared the docks, the distant crash of waves filling the silence between us. The fishers watched warily, their expressions reflecting the apprehension of those who sensed trouble approaching. They looked at me as if I were the source of their problems. And they regarded Oberon as they would the elves.

A gull screeched overhead, piercing through the tension, yet the weight of their stares remained unyielding. Their hands stilled over their nets and crates, fingers curling around filet knives and rope as if bracing for a fight, not hostile but prepared. Their shoulders were taut, and their eyes darted between us.

The tension rippled through the air. The fishers weren’t just suspicious. They were defensive. Their gazes darted to Oberon’s ears and stance, and they watched how he moved. They didn’t see a knight. They saw something other—someone of power.

Oberon’s irritation was palpable in the space between us, in the stiffening of his shoulders and the sharp tick of his jaw.Based on what he said before, he was used to this. So why did he react this way?

The last thing I needed was for him to make this worse, so I forced a pleasant smile onto my face. “We hoped to ask a few questions,” I started, my voice as warm as possible. “About the waters here.”

One fisher, older than the rest, crossed his arms over his broad chest. His skin was weathered, and wind and time had carved deep creases into his face. “Ain’t nothin’ here for you knights.” His eyes flicked to Oberon, lingering for a breath too long before snapping back to me.

Keep them talking.

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” I assured him. My voice was measured. “We just want to help.”

A second man’s face, etched by years of salt and sun, let out a rough chuckle. “Help?” He shook his head, producing a dry, humorless sound. “You want to help? Leave.”

Oberon’s patience wore thin. His arms crossed more tightly over his chest, and a slight ripple of tension was clear in his stance. He wouldn’t act just yet, but he was ready.

I pressed on, maintaining a calm and careful tone. “We’ve heard the stories,” I said, allowing my gaze to flick between them as I read their expressions. “The voices in the fog. The figures in the water.”

The fishers didn’t flinch.

“If the village is at risk,” I continued, “don’t you want itgone?”

Silence.

A few of them exchanged wary glances, shifting their weight from foot to foot as their hands flexed over the handles of their fishing knives and ropes. The elder fisher huffed through his nose, his jaw tightening like a rusted trap. “There are things in those waters you’d best not meddle with, girl.” His tone was rough, but an edge of fear lay beneath it.

A prickle traced the back of my neck.

Oberon tilted his head, his dark eyes catching the dim, mist-filtered light. “What kind of things?”

The older man turned and spat into the dirt before meeting my gaze. “The kind that don’t stay dead.” A gull let out a shrill cry above us, its wings slicing through the air as it veered away from the shoreline. The elder fisher’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his weathered hands clenched into fists at his sides. His gaze flickered toward the sea, toward the rolling fog creeping over the dark waves.

I studied him carefully, noting his stiffness and the twitching of his fingers at his sides. “What does that mean?” I asked, keeping my tone gentle but insistent.

The older man’s mouth tightened. He shifted his weight, his boots scuffing against the damp dock. “It means what I said, girl,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel.

I took a slow breath and forced my shoulders to stay relaxed.Don’t push. Keep him talking.“So,” I tried again, this time softer, letting just the right amount of curiosity and understanding seep into my words, “you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

A few of the fishers shifted, avoiding my eyes and glancing toward the water as if they wished they could turn and walk away. The older man hesitated. His mouth opened and then shut again. His fingers curled and then flexed. I watched as he ran a calloused hand over his face, wiping at the beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the crisp air.

“Aye,” he admitted, just above a whisper. “More than once.”

Oberon straightened beside me. His presenceshifted—not just alert, but heavier, weighted with understanding. “What did you see?”

The older man’s gaze darted to Oberon, then back to me. His lips parted and pressed shut as though he might swallow the words again. But I saw the tension in his shoulders, the tremor in his fingers. He wanted to tell us. No. Heneededto.

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