Page 18 of Bound

Because this woman...

Wren...

She was real. And despite the half of her blood that made her wings too small, made her look at him with such trepidation, if not outright fear...

She was his.

If only she might come to realise that he was hers.

5. Bargain

Her throat tightened and the impulse to flee became something near to a necessity.

But this was her land. Her home. And she could not afford to be frightened away from it.

There was a knife at her hip. For twine and cutting through vines and thistles, but she tried to pretend it was some kind of comfort if his presence was malicious.

“I am unused to visitors,” she called out over the distance between them. His head canted ever so slightly, and she was struck yet again by the strength of his build.

Her knife seemed flimsy and absurd.

She’d learned from Thorn, though. She must stand her ground. To wait and consider the predators in a field. To assess before committing to any form of action.

“Had we business left between us?”

He continued to stare. Assessing her just as thoroughly as she did to him.

“You had a visitor just now,” the woodcutter countered, his lips turning downward ever so slightly. “Unless he is a resident here.”

Wren did not huff, but she moved her hand to block out the suns as best she could, to look at him without coming any closer. She felt no particular obligation to answer him—the manners carefully instilled by her mother only demanded so much.

So she shrugged, and watched his brow furrow, and she decided she did not like being cut off from her own front door. It took only a moment to convince herself to move. He was too near the pump to carry on with her chores as if he was not there at all, but she could go toward the door. Would. As soon as her legs obeyed.

He watched her, and her skin prickled with the same anxious awareness as when she walked through the marketplace. It was rude of him not to offer the purpose of his visit. She tugged at her braid before she forced her hands down—to soften. To not betray just how awkward she felt.

Even so, he watched.

Waiting. For her to answer him about her father?

She felt better with the solid wood behind her. To know that she had only to fumble with the latch and slip inside before there would be a heavy iron lock to offer her protection.

“I’ve chores to attend to,” she hedged as calmly as she was able. “And you’re keeping me from my pump.”

He glanced to the side where it stood up proudly from the ground, a neat square of aged bricks trimming the edges. It had always been there for as long as she could remember. Weeds were pushing through the corners, threatening the tiny yellow flowers that her mother had planted to thrive beneath the runoff.

Another item for her list.

He took a measured step to the side, away from it. “That was not my intent.”

She hummed a little. Kept herself from shrugging at him once again. “All right.” He was still frowning, and she did not think it had anything to do with the morning suns. “Would you like to share what your intention might be?” She tried to keep her tone genteel, although even she could not quite pretend it was friendly.

He looked at her again. Waiting. As if she was missing something terribly obvious. It frustrated her. Made her feel small and foolish when she knew she was anything but.

Another tug at her braid. Another forcing of her hands back to her sides. “Ser,” she supplied, forcing calm into her voice. “I thought we had settled the matter of the market.”

His frown deepened, and her hand went to the latch at the door.

His shoulders pushed downward. Not a slump, but evidence of some sort of displeasure. The feeling was entirely mutual.