Page 49 of Bound

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” she agreed. She coughed slightly. Placed her hand upon the knob. “I will fetch paper so you may tell me what to buy at the market.”

Then she slipped inside.

And for some reason, was confident that he would not follow—intrude, when she needed a moment, to calm her breath and remain firm in her arguments. To keep from allowing him to sacrifice even more of his time and resources without compensation.

The paper was just as scrap, the pencil so short and worn it was barely longer than her thumb. But they were serviceable enough, especially if he would even give her the name of the vendor he favoured.

It seemed that Braum had made use of the time as well. He stood a little taller, his eyes meeting hers as soon as she stepped back out the door. “I would like to do it myself,” he stated firmly. “I will also supply the oil.”

Wren’s mouth twisted. The pencil cut into her palm; she gripped it so tightly.

Her mother was not there to entreat her not to be stubborn.

Her father was not there to vouch for Braum’s motives.

It was her judgement alone.

She could imagine nothing she trusted less.

“Why?” And before he could give her more drivel about scraped legs and errant logs, she pressed on. “The job is done. More than done. You already knew I was uneasy that you had offered too much, and to come here and offer more is...” She huffed out a breath. Wanted to say many more things. Like asinine. Absurd.

Suspicious.

“Give me a better reason, please,” she insisted. The please was for her mother. The demand was for her own sake.

His hands curled.

Then relaxed as he took a step forward.

Her eyes narrowed, and he stilled. “Because I like it here.”

She blinked.

If she had conjured any possible reasons, that would not have been one of them.

He’d complimented the quiet. The pleasure to be found in watching the animals as they went about their lives, grazing and ambling at will.

“Because I should like us to be friends,” he continued, growing in confidence—only in word if nothing else. He could not look at her as he said it. Which was just fine, because she could not look at him.

“Friends,” she repeated, trying to make the word fit into any semblance of clarity.

And failed utterly.

Her brow furrowed, and she huffed out a breath. “Why would you possibly want that?”

He gave a sigh of his own and straightened further, his hands curled as he forced himself to look at her. And she attempted to do the same, although her attention flitted toward his boots more than once. “Is it so strange to consider that I might find your company agreeable?”

She took a deliberate step backward. “Yes, actually.”

And for a moment, he looked... sad.

And it did strange things to her. Made her itch to move, to run, to hide away because he had no business looking like that in relation to her.

But then it was gone. Tucked away as if it had never been as his jaw tightened and he regarded her again. “I should like to make the attempt, regardless. If you would allow me the opportunity to try.”

She tugged at her braid. Wished she’d kept with her rug and the grimbles. Where things were simple and... not this.

She swallowed, trying to force some measure of moisture into her dry mouth. “A friend would not oil my fence.”