Page 30 of Bound

Her eyes burned, and she blinked, swirling the rest of her milk around in her cup. Her throat was too tight to drink it. “Not exactly.”

He hummed a little. Did not press her, and she was thankful.

Did she owe him an explanation? She could not think why she should. He would not be her friend after this. He would not come to her for lozenges for his fledglings. No syrups for a wintery chest.

“Have you a mate?” she asked, because that was the proper thing, wasn’t it? To make inquiries. To learn about a person. She was used to Firen, that volunteered much and coaxed out little. “Children?”

He looked on the older side, but perhaps that was merely a result of his form. Height and breadth of shoulders did not always indicate age. Her father was lean, looked young even when he was not.

He shifted. Finished the last bite of his meal and he seemed to take a very long time to chew. Perhaps he’d lost her, and she’d trespassed on a subject that brought pain along with it. Before she might rescind it, he spoke, his voice low. “A sister. She has children.” He did not expound further, and she was determined not to pry.

“And you? Do you live alone here?”

Merryweather bumped her head against his elbow, and he showed his empty plate to her before she sauntered back toward the barn.

Wren allowed her head to fall back against the trunk of the tree. “If you mean people, then yes, I’m alone.”

His head turned rather sharply, and she caught the edge of movement just enough to be curious about it.

“What?”

He smoothed his napkin across his thigh. “I made a few enquiries to find you. Someone suggested there were more that lived here.”

Why it should matter to him, she did not dare to contemplate. Her mother had given warnings, in that veiled, vague sort of way that Wren now found infuriating. To keep the door bolted, because it was safer.

Safer than what, Wren had tried to ask, but her mother had smiled and tugged at her braid and wouldn’t answer.

Wren didn’t need to fret about that. Just do as she said. Keep it locked. Make sure you could light a lamp even on the darkest night. Keep a blade somewhere close, just in case.

She didn’t have a blade now.

She looked at him as best she could without climbing to her feet. Watched the way he kept his attention away from her as he made little patterns with his fingertip against the cloth of his napkin. “There were others, once, but not anymore.” She was proud she could say it without a tremor. With little emotion at all. “I would appreciate,” she continued, less frightened than perhaps she should be, but firm. “If you didn’t tell anyone otherwise. I can’t imagine what good would come of it.”

But she could conjure the dangers now. What it meant to be alone. What harm could come without another there to help. To advise.

She got to her feet and went to his side, holding out her hand so he might stack his plate with hers and give her his empty cup. His fingers lingered on the napkin, almost as if he still had some need of it, but his face was perfectly clean.

A fine face, she decided. Perhaps his brow set a little too low. His mouth formed too grim a line.

It startled her. To look. To think any such thing at all.

“I’ll go wash up, then.” He nodded in acknowledgment. “Not to rush you. If you need to rest for longer. It’s warm today, I kFnow.” She gave a rough sort of laugh that was less humour and more awkwardness. “Or if you need to stop for the day, that’s fine, too.”

“Wren,” Braum huffed out, coming to his feet as she took a measured step backward. “I will see to your fence. As much as is needed. Until I am satisfied with it. And there will be no more talk of payments or debt or anything of the kind. Can I have your agreement on that?”

She should leave it be. Give her assent and be done with it. But too much pushed at her. Too much history, too much doubt, so she gave one last effort. “A few scrapes isn’t worth all this,” she reminded him. “It just isn’t.”

His brow furrowed, and his mouth tightened, and he truly did look very severe when he did that, and her heart raced a little faster. “But,” she hastened to add. “If you think it is, then... then I’ll just have to get used to the idea.”

To say that he relaxed would be an exaggeration, and yet something eased. “Thank you.” He nodded toward the plates. “For the meal as well. I do not agree about your hostessing.”

Her cheeks burned, and she ducked her head—nodding solely because she did not know what else to do. He was being generous, and there was a persistent niggling of suspicion that wanted to know why.

But those were personal concerns. Ones she did not have to foist onto him, doubtlessly insulting him in the process.

So she went back into the house and set to washing instead.

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