Page 31 of Bound
He stood in the doorway. Didn’t enter. Just knocked once upon the doorframe. She’d left it open to catch a little of the breeze, as well as to keep Merryweather for screeching her unhappiness at the obstruction.
She hadn’t hidden again. She’d watered the kitchen garden, the special herbs that came from her mother’s world in their screened area beside the house. It was... pleasant. To have someone else around again. Even if they did not speak, keeping to their mutual tasks, she had not been willing to acknowledge just how much she had missed it.
“I’m going to let these posts set for the night. I’ll do the rest in the morning.”
She nodded, already wondering if she should make him breakfast, or perhaps offer him a snack for his journey home. But before she could decide on either, he turned, already approaching the clearing to fly off by the time she reached the door.
He did not see her. And she was not quick enough to call to him before he was up beyond the tree where they had shared their meal.
She huffed out a breath, annoyed with herself. She should be relieved at having her home back to herself. The quiet should be welcome after hearing the sounds of his labours all day. Pounding and sawing and the occasional gush of water from the pump.
A pleasant day, she scolded herself. Something different. To be enjoyed for what it was, but certainly not to be missed when it was over.
She brushed her hands against a towel, her hands stained green from where she was shredding herbs to mix into a paste so they might ferment in their jars.
She would take good soap out to the pump. And a scrub brush as well. Then she would relieve Thorn from the burden of watching hesperas well.
And settle in for a quiet evening.
Which was precisely what she liked them to be.
7. Stray
Sleep was elusive for Braum. The flight back to the cottage was a stilted, aching thing, no matter how he soothed himself that he was mere hours away from making the journey back again. The instincts were old ones—burned deep into his bones that told him that home was with a menagerie of wild creatures.
And a mate that did not know him.
He waited. For some sign, some glimmer of recognition. For her body to relax from its seemingly endless tension. For Wren to see him. Know him.
But she didn’t.
Her eyes were often filled with mistrust. With an anxiousness that seemed as deeply ingrained as the ones that insisted they were bound.
And he hated it.
Hated the way they could not share a table without her appetite flittering away. How they could not seem to converse without the distraction of the leptus to loosen her tongue.
What she divulged plagued him.
She was unused to help. She was fearful of debts. Of causing trouble.
If any had taken advantage of her, of what she was...
His hands curled into fists.
He had not bothered to light a fire upon his return. His meal had been plain—dried fruits and meats he’d purchased in the market in bulk, so he did not always have to be bothered at the end of a long day. But both felt particularly unappealing compared to fresh bread. Vegetables picked just for the occasion of their meal rather than sitting in a market stall for days waiting for him to trade for them.
He sat up, rubbing at the back of his neck as he closed his eyes and fought down urges that were so foreign to him. The want.
More than that.
Deeper. The trembling in his hands suggested something physical. The way his heart raced and his legs twitched for movement, his wings rustling as if preparing to thrust him through his door.
Anything, if it meant going back to where he belonged.
He moved from the bed.
Paced, urging himself to tiredness. The day had been long and overly warm, but he had not noticed. Not when his every attention was attuned to the woman so oblivious to him.