Page 23 of Bound

Her stomach gave a twist, and it felt very much like her mother’s reproach that she’d yet again had such poor manners that she’d neglected to ask his name.

She’d rectify that today.

If... if he came.

It was early yet. Merryweather gave her a reproachful look from the bed as she turned to do up the covers, stretching long limbs out until claws appeared, a sharp reminder that she was, in fact, a predator. When she was so inclined to be.

Wren peeked out the window. No supplies. No woodcutter.

Her stomach was in knots, and she resented it. But she forced herself to make herself breakfast, simple with boiled oats and thick cream.

Another dish of that for Merryweather, who pushed her head insistently at Wren’s hand and threatened to take the oats as well unless she was given her own dish.

“I should have slept longer,” Wren groused, but that had been the problem. Sleep was slow in coming and harder still to keep, tension and trepidation intruding upon the peace she so enjoyed about her home.

A sound outside.

A rumbling growl of Thorn.

Wren unbolted the door and pushed outside, taking out her hatchet as she prepared to run toward Thorn and his flock.

But there was no answering roar from a predator in search of a seemingly easy meal. Rarely did she have to intervene, her assistance more a hindrance to Thorn’s efforts than a help. But she felt better for trying. For being there if he needed her.

Her throat tightened.

Not a predator, after all.

The woodcutter, with a cart and a lone hesperto pull it. Male, then, although she did not peer between its legs to confirm her suspicion. Temperance and Calliope were still inside the barn, preferring to remain inside until the suns rose. They were always eager to go in when dusk came, but they would bellow and rage if she kept them inside all day while the fence was mended.

She tugged at her braid, remembering the figment of her mother’s warnings about manners, and stepped out into the cool morning.

She had her own chores that required her attention and yet...

Why did she feel relieved he had come back? The fences were not so bad. She would have seen to them eventually.

Her eyes widened as she took in the amount of lumber he took from the cart. He was sorting them into neat piles as she approached, and her mouth grew dry as she took in the whole of it.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, wondering if her responsibilities to feed him began with breakfast or closer to midday. Her cheeks flushed as she tried again. “That is, fair morning.”

He halted in his work, a post still in his hands. “And to you,” he offered back. “And yes, I have had my fill.”

She nodded, feeling awkward. She had her own tasks and yet it felt... wrong to simply abandon him here. To see to the little chores that filled her days while he laboured out here alone.

“I will return the cart, then begin. I did not intend to wake you.”

Did she look that dishevelled that he thought her straight from her bed?

Her cheeks warmed, and she did not care for it. Did not like the way her stomach tightened, the way her fingers twitched for something to do rather than stand and make idle conversation she was practiced at.

“I wasn’t. That is... you didn’t.” She huffed, irritated with him.

No. With herself.

That having someone else here should affect her so.

The second sun was peeking over the horizon, the sky beginning to bloom with its customary light. Thorn made another sound, and she remembered the hatchet still clutched in one hand—not the most welcoming of sights.

“I...” she began, then shook her head. Turning on her heel and moving toward the pasture.