Page 141 of Bound

This seemed the only available compromise. Unless she was going to invite him into the alcove with her, which he knew she would not.

Tea with Kessa had gone... well.

Very well.

He’d watched as Wren had grown more comfortable as she came to understand that Kessa would not pepper her with too many questions. She did not press after their bonding, did not chide her for... anything at all. She was kind. Smiled often. Complimented the biscuits shared and the pretty floral pattern about the rim of the plates—things that Braum had taken a vague notice of during his visits but never thought to mention.

Wren had grown a little wistful as she thanked her, her finger skimming over the subtle petals, making a continuous chain. “My mother picked them. Cheerful dishes for cheerful meals. I hope... I hope you’ll come back again. For a supper, perhaps?”

Kessa had beamed at her. And while Wren’s smile was far more timid, it appeared as if she meant it as a genuine hope rather than an obligatory nicety.

“Of course!” Kessa had gushed, full of the enthusiasm she was trying so desperately to calm into gentle interest. “And you’ll come to our home as well? The whole family would dearly love to meet you. If... if that is agreeable.”

She glanced at Braum briefly, and he gave her a stern look. “Or not. Truly. I didn’t mean...” She held up a finger at her brother. “Don’t banish me,” she insisted. “You’re making me nervous, glowering at me.”

“I only glower because you take more than is offered.”

Wren pushed the biscuits closer to Kessa. As if they were talking about biscuits and tea rather than the invitation that Wren undoubtedly would fret over for weeks to come.

Kessa took another biscuit with a marked change in attitude, her smile turning sheepish. “You are a lovely hostess, Wren. It was rude of me to bring up plans when you are still healing. Please, do not trouble yourself. I am merely excited to know you.”

They’d talked of motherhood and chores and plans for the winter. The festival that would have the city twinkling with moonstones and garlands for the solstice. Across the iron arches that transacted most of the city, although no one could recall their exact purpose. The garlands, most likely. Some rusted and broken, repaired with great iron hooks to better secure the faintly glowing stones.

Kessa did not ask if they would attend, only mentioned that the children were most looking forward to it now that the garlands were being strung between the high towers. Some of the boughs were even from his grove, some cut and bound by his hands. Others were by apprentices and hired help for the occasion.

He should go back at some point. Should trust that Wren was sensible and would not hurt herself trying to attend to... anything.

She was not one for risks—she simply put other beings first. Most particularly, the creatures entrusting her with their care.

He tried to picture his Wren as a fledgling at the festival. Perhaps when she was youngest and her parents might have dared to take her when they were still whole. At the very least, she must have seen the preparations during market days, but she only ever spoke of the city with the mild distaste of one who had never truly enjoyed being within its walls.

Would she attend if he asked it of her?

Could he ask?

He wanted her happy. He did not want her to feel pushed and prodded into a different life, simply because she’d accepted him as her mate.

But perhaps...

Perhaps there was room for him to have wants. To make requests and suggestions and leave her room to say no when she wanted to.

Needed to.

They were on the porch. The house perhaps felt a little crowded with the cot and the table and some of his belongings strewn about in want of a proper place to reside. The porch was better. With plenty of blankets for Wren, and Merryweather curled on her cushions—more throne than chair now.

But it made Wren smile without fail, which meant he would make Merry whatever furniture she wanted.

“You’re very quiet,” Braum observed.

Watched as she rocked. Stared out at the pastures forlorn of animals. A lonely place, if he was not with her. Peaceful, but barren.

Some might have said the same of his lots and groves, but he’d loved them. Loved to fly between the rows, full of purpose and intention. And sometimes, with neither.

“Just thinking,” Wren said at last, then offered nothing more.

“Should I be worried?” he pressed, hating to trouble her, but needing to know if they’d done something wrong along the way.

“About what?” Wren turned to him, her brow furrowed.