Page 62 of Bound

But... maybe someday.

He could hope, couldn’t he? When he was here, away from her. He could let his thoughts linger where it was dangerous. Of what might have been, what... what could.

If he had restraint enough to keep from frightening her.

A friend could wait for market day.

A mate...

He groaned.

Picked up his axe.

And set to work.

12. Mate

Wren didn’t know if Braum would insist on walking with her.

Not that she hoped he would.

But she... wondered.

And even if he did, he likely hadn’t the slightest idea how long it would take her without the aid of wings. He wouldn’t know to be there when the second sun was only a smudge. Wouldn’t know about avoiding breakfast or of Merryweather’s disgruntlement.

And why should he?

If she dressed with a little more care, if she stared at the stove and contemplated making a double portion of a meal she did not usually eat, then...

It was only because they hadn’t been clear. She’d see him today; that was all she knew. That was all she should need to know. The knot in her stomach was her usual anxiousness on market day. Worsened, now that she did not even know if her usual stall had been repaired or if she would need to find the Proctor to make enquiries.

That thought alone was enough to banish any thought of lighting the stove and fixing even the most meagre of breakfasts.

She laced her boots. Straightened her overalls.

Her bag had been packed the night before—twice over.

Her coins were in her pocket, buttoned closed. She didn’t like bringing so many, but if fence oil was as precious as the ones for lamps and cooking, then she would need them.

Another twist of her stomach, and she gave a sleepy Merryweather a long stroke. “We need our fence,” Wren reminded her. “If we take care of it now, we’ll have longer before we need to fix it again.”

Merryweather extended a paw, then closed her eyes and waited for Wren to leave her be.

She sighed.

Leaned down and placed a kiss on the top of her head, then hurried away before Merry could give any form of protest.

She did not always care for kisses, but for reasons she couldn’t name, Wren needed the extra bit of affection.

There was no Braum waiting outside. Not that she expected there to be. And it would make the walk more peaceful.

Should have.

Except she was going to market, and only the return journeys were pleasant ones.

It had been exciting when she was small and caught first sight of the carts coming in from other places. She’d ask about them, if they might visit them one day, and her mother looked at her with such horror at the prospect that she’d never made the enquiry again.

She’d tried to smooth it over, her hand tucked around Wren’s much smaller one. “They’re far, little bird. And we like our home, don’t we?”