Page 42 of Bound

“Was your father a woodcutter?” she asked, wishing to turn to his family histories rather than dwell upon hers. “A family trade?”

He grunted, picking up one of the biscuits. If she watched him take a bite, if she stared a little too long as she waited for a reaction, it was only because the recipe was so dear to her.

“My mother’s father. Showed me the plots he’d raised. Taught me how to plant, when to cut.”

She turned toward him. Not all the way, but enough. “And you like it?”

The corners of his mouth pulled up ever so slightly. “Parts of it. Tending to the trees. Walking the rows. I am not certain there is anyone that would claim that cutting wood is the most enjoyable of tasks.”

She grimaced, remembering her brief foray into the skill. “No, I suppose not.”

He gestured out toward the field. “This has been a welcome change. Building something useful.”

She sat the tray down beside her and pulled her knees up. “I really am grateful,” she murmured because... she’d said it before, but she was uncertain her tone had led him to believe she meant it. “Truly. This would have taken me ages to finish.”

He glanced at her. Perhaps even assessing the strength of her arm briefly before he turned his head back toward the pasture. “But you would have done it,” he countered. “And that is admirable.”

Her throat tightened. She did not need his approval. His praise. And yet it made something tighten in her stomach, made her throat burn as she curled her arms about her knees and couldn’t quite look at him.

She didn’t need it.

But she liked it.

Didn’t like that she liked it, but...

“I...” she swallowed. “Thank you.”

He nodded, and she did not know what else to say. Her skin felt hot and her cheeks flushed. She was flustered. As if she was some girl freshly grown that held dreams of mates and love and all the rest of it.

Had she ever been that? She could not recall.

Wren curled up a little tighter, chiding herself firmly. She was being ridiculous. She needed a good wash at the pump, to get some cool water on her face and hands and that would make her feel better.

But she certainly was not about to do that in front of Braum. Not that he would... not that she would...

She rubbed at her forehead. “Are you all right?” Braum asked. He’d finished the last biscuit, and neatened everything on the tray before placing it to the side. “I will fetch you water, if you like.

“No,” she croaked out. Her mouth was dry, but she didn’t... that was not their bargain. “I’m supposed to give you food and drink, remember? Not the other way around.”

He shook his head, and she was left with the distinct impression that she’d irritated him. Again.

She did not mean to. It just seemed to happen with increasing frequency whenever she opened her mouth.

“I believe those terms were made at your own discretion. I may still offer what I wish, even if you do not care to accept my help.”

There it was again. His constant insistence that help was normal. That it was the gracious thing to do to simply... accept it.

She tugged at her braid.

Looked at her empty cup and sighed deeply.

Her pride prickled. Her stubbornness, too.

And yet...

She swallowed it back. Her heart racing and full of shame that it was so hard to do it at all...

She held out her cup. “Thank you,” she repeated.