Page 37 of Bound
Grabbed hold of her arm.
And she almost turned, ready to lash out and remind him that he had no right to touch her, to leave and forget the fence entirely because she could finish it herself. She could. It might take her a few weeks and Temperance and Calliope would hate it, but she’d do it.
“Wren,” he breathed out. A soft press of air that stilled her temper as he looked at her. With sadness in his eyes. For a moment, she thought it was pity. Before her blood settled and she could truly look at him. But no...
“I do not think you incapable.”
She swallowed, her throat too tight and her eyes dropped, unable to hold his gaze. “All right.”
He did not release her arm. And she did not pull it free, for reasons she was not willing to contemplate. “Whose words were those?”
She glanced back at him, her brow furrowing, a tinge of anger returning that he could not even remember it. “Yours. When I couldn’t fly over your wayward log.”
He closed his eyes, and he had no business moving his thumb ever so slightly against her upper arm. Soothing. Gentling. As if she might be coddled into calm by his touch alone.
Why couldn’t she lurch away?
“I was referring to Jamen.” She looked at him blankly, and he smiled grimly. “The fool with the cart. Although you might argue that it was true of myself as well, as I was the one that trusted him with it.” He ducked his head, shaking it ever so slightly. “Never you.”
Her stomach twisted. Her throat burned. And she was perilously close to crying.
“Oh,” she croaked, before she found herself suddenly capable of using her limbs after all. It wasn’t so difficult after all, not when to stay would mean he could watch the sudden onslaught of tears that threatened to fall.
“Wren,” he said again, but this time there was no halting hand, and she was able to keep going. She did not run, she could not bring herself to do that, but she hurried.
And she bolted the door firmly behind her as she entered the house, her hand over her mouth as she tried to put herself to rights. To forget the sincerity in his voice. The way that she believed him.
Not her. Never her.
It shouldn’t matter. Should not affect her so deeply.
But for reasons that shamed her, it did.
???
She dressed. Rubbed at her hair with a towel before putting it back into its customary braid. Ruffled her feathers with a shower of misty water and allowed guilt to eat away at her stomach.
She needed to go apologise.
A true one, as her mother would say, eyes firm as she taught a fledgling Wren about looking someone in the eye and talking about wrongs done. How she might do better in the future.
But there wasn’t going to be a future with him in it, so did it truly matter? Feed him his meal, thank him for the work, and perhaps she might wave at him on market days if he happened to pass by.
She wished Merryweather was inside. Where she might coax her into a huddle on the bed with her as she nursed her bruised feelings.
But she was out prowling, and did not have need of Wren’s comfort at the moment.
She scrubbed at her face, feeling trapped and restless.
She went to the loft, anyway. Not to the bed as she might have liked, but to the window seat. It was stuffy, and she allowed herself to open it with a creaky push. The hinges needed oiling, that was certain. But to traipse back down the ladder was more effort than she cared for, so she added it to her never ending list.
He was working.
And if she squinted, he could make out his scowl.
She’d done that. Been cross and angry and held things against him that were apparently not meant for her at all.
She tucked her chin upon her knees, watching. Disgusted with her own cowardice and yet unable to force herself to move, either.