Page 59 of Bound

She huffed. Scrubbed with extra vigour at a mug that needed a rinse and a swipe with the soapy rag at most. “I’m sure your sister would appreciate your help,” she groused. “If she has fledglings to mind, as you say.”

“She does,” he reaffirmed. What a curious thing she should think he’d lied about. “But she has a mate to help her.” He did not miss the way she flinched at the word, and he had to suppress the urge yet again to comfort her. “Our parents also, when they are in town.”

She turned her head, swallowing thickly. “They do not live in the city?”

“They do.” He walked to the shelf on the wall, nestling the plate amongst the rest of its kind. Was more than aware that Wren had stopped to watch him as he did so. “My father’s profession was odd, for our kind. He was orphaned young, and did not much care for his adopters. He decided he liked the sea. Found a place on a ship and began to run the trade routes.”

She handed him the mug that had suffered under her abuse, and he did his best to quiet the thrill at her acquiescence. “I did not think...” She swallowed. Grimaced. “I was told that mates could not be parted for so long.”

He did not miss the way her lips curled. The way her eyes flashed with something bitter and angry.

He wanted to cup her cheek. To hold her still so he could look deeply and try to work out its source with no words at all.

But instead, he added the mug to the tidy line of hooks fashioned beneath the shelf.

“They couldn’t. He had to give it up when they met. Worked the woodlots until Kessa and I were grown. Now Mam goes with him. They should be back before autumn. She doesn’t much care for the seas come winter.”

He had not meant to talk of his parents, not when his story differed so entirely from her own. There had been sacrifice, yes. The good of the family over his father’s love of the adventure, of salt air and briny seas. He’d tried to instil it in Braum as well, but had failed miserably.

He liked the steadiness of the trees. The work was hard, but the results could be beautiful. More than wood to feed stoves, more than shims for old houses. He could carve. Could craft. Little pieces that scattered through his cottage, reminders of when he’d been young and thought he’d soon be making them for someone.

Kessa missed them more. Her home was only a few doors down, and she said the street always felt emptier when they were away.

Then she’d give him that pointed look. That he should make use of their childhood residence while they were gone, lest it be overtaken by dust and pesky fictin flies.

Which would not happen. Not when their mother always ensured that someone would come in to clean each month, to air it out and make sure it felt welcoming and liveable for their returns.

“Or,” Braum would counter, gaze just as pointed. “You could come to the hovel and wait for them to get back.”

Kessa would roll her eyes. Shove at his shoulder. His cottage was not a hovel, no matter what his sister said about it. The joints were tight, the roof sound. It was small, that was all. Meant more for cooking midday meals and resting during long days rather than a permanent residence.

But he liked it.

Had liked it.

It was getting more difficult to keep his eyes from drifting. To study the space of her home, to imagine what it might be to live here with her. To be welcomed inside, for her to smile when he returned from the lots, for him to have a chair at the table along with Merryweather and Wren.

He folded the towel neatly and placed it back on the counter.

Then took a measured step backward.

He was presumptuous to the extreme.

She barely tolerated his presence here. He hadn’t forced, but he’d been persistent. It had been rewarded with more of her time, but he still doubted that she wanted him there at all.

Which hurt. More than the aching muscles when he was still young and learning his trade.

“Thank you,” he managed, realising that was the most important thing he wished to convey. There was nothing else he could say about her past, her history, that would not also hurt her in some unintended manner.

“For what?” Wren peered about the kitchen, as if the answer might be on the counter along with the towel.

Always so uncertain. So nervous. It might have been endearing, did not so frequently leave him with a deep sadness for why it was so.

“For trusting me well enough. For telling me about your parentage. It should always have come from you. I am sorry that any of it came from... others.”

She grimaced. “Who told you about it?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck and took another step backward. “I was not privy to his name. He... approached me, as I was assessing the damage to your stall.”