Page 11 of Bound
Which made him just as much a fool.
Which she’d seen. And maybe that was part of it. She thought him lacking, so it didn’t matter if there was a pull, a call that was ancient and filled with longing. An insistent niggling in his gut to go, to find, to bind her to him, and all the rest didn’t matter. Not in comparison.
She hadn’t known him.
Or worse, did not want him.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the wrongness of it all sickening him. Urging him to find her, to make things right, to apologise that he’d let her go at all.
But first he must find her. And then he would show her that he would be a capable mate. Attentive and...
Another twist.
And he turned for home.
Not home.
Because a home would have her in it.
He was too old. He’d been too long without her, and he’d stopped trying. Stopped learning about women and what she might need of him and...
He groaned low in his throat and went back to the city instead.
As much as he hated the thought of it, he needed to prepare. Needed help.
And as loath as he was to admit it to himself, he needed his sister.
3. Wren
A few days passed. She wasn’t hiding—really, she wasn’t. She would go back to and deal with the Proctor when everyone could manage in her absence.
When she made it out to the grimble field, there were a few fresh faces to greet her. Tiny, their white bodies already licked clean of the mess of birth, with points of deep blue on their noses and ears.
Then there was Thorn. Keeper of the pasture. A great hulking beast that often resembled a knoll with his light fur stained green from the freshly chewed grasses. Often he would be covered in grimbles as they jumped on his back and darted away again before he could lift his great head and give any form of protest.
He stood at her approach, a true gentleman, and approached with a bowed head so he could receive his customary attentions. “See anything interesting?” she inquired, but there had been no bellows from the field. No blood strung about to suggest he’d torn through predators that threatened his flock.
There were all sorts of leaves and twigs stuck into his thick coat, and he shook lazily. He had soft, gentle eyes that always made her feel a little too seen. His kind could be vicious, would protect against any foe that threatened what was theirs. Her father had brought him when he was young. When he was small enough to live in the house with them. But he’d grown, and he was bored, and then her mother had wanted grimblesso they’d have wool of their own and not have to waste coin for it, and suddenly he had a purpose. So fierce and strong when needed. A plaything when he wasn’t.
Birds liked to flock to the pond at the end of the pasture, shouting at one another during mating season. But they had already made their pairings, settling into the rushes to nest for the season.
Thorn’s head tilted upward, his dark eyes narrowing and his lip curling back briefly. The light of the suns made it where she could not immediately make out the cause, but if he reacted, she would believe him.
The sound came first.
Then the landing.
She swallowed, forcing down the ache.
“Fair morning, Da,” she offered without turning her head. Thorn remembered when her father had lived with them. A picture of domesticity, if only for a little while. “I did not think to see you this month.”
Her father sighed and approached. Careful. Respectful? Thorn did not mind him, evidenced by his huff as he went to watch his flock, now that he knew Wren was in no particular danger either.
“Are my visits as regulated as that?”
Wren shrugged and turned toward him. She favoured her mother greatly, with her brown hair and diminutive stature. But her deep grey eyes came from her father, and he reached out toward her, his fingers grazing her chin briefly in greeting. “I heard of the market. I saw the remnants of your stall. Were you injured?”
She did not remind him that days had passed since then. That her wounds had already turned to scabs, and she’d spend a long evening with a delicate pair of tweezers as she pulled each of the slivers free.