Page 61 of Bound

He’d never blamed her for her reticence. And hearing of her father, of her poor mother and the pain that even now lingered so potently in Wren’s every word, her posture...

Her guardedness was indeed born of experience.

Her mistrust had been fuelled by constant disappointment.

She mocked the prospect of attending a fete because she resented the very premise of it.

And he could not fault her.

He’d grown up in the quiet assurance that his mother and father were bound. That he might speak wistfully of the sea. But then she’d huff and kiss him and it would fade into a grin. Then he would claim he only spoke of it at all so that she’d have to remind him of how little he’d lost compared to his gains.

He’d learned afterward that there was truth in it. When he was grown and that wistfulness turned to plans. To commitments. Set aside for a time, postponed during the raising of their children, but hardly forgotten.

Wren’s memories were of fracture. Of hardship and uncertainty.

He ached.

And no amount of rubbing at the back of his neck, even at his chest, seemed to abate it.

They’d agreed upon an uneasy sort of friendship, yet even that felt perilous. How long could he pretend he did not feel as he did? How long before she’d push, and he’d answer, and he’d...

Lose her.

There was the panicky fluttering inside of his chest. The urgency that demanded he turn back. Remind himself that she was there and everything was fine, and then he could breathe again.

Braum grit his teeth.

Forced himself home.

Back to barred doors and sleepless nights. He’d neglected his woodlots, and he’d put that to rights. He would pretend that they mattered, and that he was diligent, and that he would not spend most of the night circling high above the home that mattered far more.

He’d chop wood.

And he’d promise himself that it was for her. So she’d be warm in the winter, with her leptus for company in front of the kitchen hearth.

He did not know if she was used to chopping it herself. He cringed at the idea, grew even more resentful if her father did not at least attend that particular chore on her behalf. She was strong, and he did not doubt her. But the instinct was there, regardless. That she was smaller, slighter, that she should not have to trouble herself with the tedium, the danger that came from an axe poorly maintained.

Not that he’d paid attention to that hatchet of hers. That there was rust upon one screw, and it looked as if it had not been honed for an age.

He swallowed.

Landed before his cottage.

He’d chop wood. Until he couldn’t anymore.

For her. With tools that were properly cared for, because he had time and knowledge to do so. And maybe he’d show her how to attend to hers, then tend to them himself when surely one of her animals would require her attention and...

He was supposed to wait until market day to see her.

He needed to wait.

Give her time to rest. To maybe... maybe think of him. To decide that she liked him. Maybe... maybe even missed him.

If only for the help he could give her.

Kessa would grow disgruntled at that. Would insist that mates were more, that he was more, and couldn’t Wren see that?

But he thought of her expression as she spoke of her parents. The sadness that seemed so deeply a part of her that he could not quite imagine her smiling and carefree.