Page 51 of Bound

A knock on the doorframe. And she did not have to wonder who it was. Her throat ached, and she was perilously close to tears, and she did not want him there. Did not want to be seduced with talk of companionship, of compliments on the land she loved so dearly.

She glanced down at her pencil. The scrap of paper.

The door was thick, the wood solid. She could raise her voice and hope it carried. Could ignore him entirely until he grew frustrated and went home again.

But she stood miserably from her chair and went back to the door. Opening it just a smidge so she might look at him with one eye.

Not as rude as all that.

And yet... she could not quite bring herself to believe it was true.

“Were we finished?” Braum asked, taking a measured step back from the door once he realised she did not mean to open it completely.

She rubbed at her eyes and gave a hapless sort of shrug. “We seem to be quite good at finding impasses. I thought we’d let that one settle for a while.”

He shook his head, grumbling something too low for her to hear.

She almost shut the door again, but he held out his hand—not to stop it. But an entreaty. “Wren, please.”

She sighed. Hated how gently he said her name. Hated how she liked how it sounded, coming from him. “I’m tired, Braum,” she admitted. “I did battle with a rug today and I’m sore and I don’t...” It was the wrong thing to say. Not if she wanted to insist that she could handle all the chores on her own.

Already his eyes were darting about, looking for the apparently defeated rug, and she suppressed another sigh. “I don’t know how to negotiate with you,” she finished. “And I don’t know why I must.”

Why he pressed. Why he looked about so desperately for something he might fix rather than simply going.

Her fingers twitched about her braid, and she released with another flash of embarrassment.

“I know,” Braum murmured, taking a half-step forward. Not too close. Not enough that she feared he would barge in without invitation. But enough that it felt like a conversation. A confidence. “I am sorry for that, perhaps most of all.”

She waited for him to say more. To speak plainly, so she did not have to conjure reasons of her own.

She huffed. Glared down at the ground between them. “Would you sister oil her own fence?”

He barked out something that was near a laugh. “It would never occur to her to try.”

She did not know if that reflected poorly on his sister—most particularly because she had not known to care for wood in such a manner either. And it made her even more glad she had not asked about the cooking oil.

“Not because she is incapable,” Braum clarified. “But because there’s other of us that have more time to offer. More skill for it, too.” He ducked his head slightly, and she wondered if it was meant to catch her eye. “You don’t have to know everything.” It was said gently enough, but her mouth twisted, and she looked at him then.

Steady and firm, and more than grateful that her tears had disappeared for the moment. “Yes, Braum,” she argued, with all the patience she did not feel. “When you’re all there is, you certainly do.”

He dared to look at her sadly.

But she’d spoken truly before. She was tired. Too tired to muster even the offense at his look, at his pity. Too tired to stand in the doorway and argue with a man she was beginning to suspect possessed the same stubborn streak that Wren liked to pretend she didn’t have.

So she went back through the door. Back into her kitchen, where she waved for him to follow if he wished. To her kettle that did not take too long to heat, not when the water was already warm.

She did not care that it might have been better to head to the springhouse. To offer something cool and refreshing.

It was comfort she wanted. The taste familiar, the heat suffusing through her hands until she felt... something.

His steps were hesitant, and she could not blame him. Not when just a moment before she had shut him out and considered their argument over.

A friend would get a cup of tea while he tried to convince her to let him help.

Maybe even a biscuit if he told her where to buy the oil.

Her eyes didn’t water when she pulled two mugs from the cupboard. She’d played hostess during her father’s visits—this did not need to feel so very different.