Page 7 of Bound
It had not even occurred to her to wonder.
“Sorry, Mama,” she whispered into the dark, but it was Merryweather that chirped back in answer. Polite. Gracious. Even... even when she’d been wronged.
She sighed. And found that it was rather a long time before she slept.
2. Half-blood
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.
It was supposed to be at one of those horrid fetes he had ceased attending when it became more than apparent his mate was not in attendance. Or perhaps a friend of his sister’s when she insisted he come to her home to share a meal. He shouldn’t be alone so much, she’d say, and he’d nod and do as she’d bid simply because it was easier.
She’d have a woman there. Because she knew him well, despite how he groused and insisted otherwise. And they’d look at one another as they were introduced, and they’d know. And it would be strong and mutual and everything he’d been told since his fledgling days.
It was not supposed to be in a clutch of fear and chaos.
Was not supposed to be when he was ready to throttle Jamen for his ineptitude.
They were related by marriage and nothing more. What did it matter to him if the boy had begun a new venture, and wouldn’t Braum please consider using his services whenever he could?
He’d relented. Against his better judgement.
And now...
He watched her go.
Watched her walk.
With her stunted wings and her utter lack of recognition for what they should be to one another.
That she’d wanted to be free of him was obvious. So he’d held back. Allowed her to go, while every instinct in him screamed he do the opposite.
She’d walked away from the city. And it bothered him. Bothered him that she presumably lived beyond its protection as well. He had a duty to protect her, to care for her, and how could he do that if she was not close by to tend to?
His hands turned to fists.
There was a mess at the market. That needed his attention. Jamen needed an earful, if not a sound smack for his incompetence.
He forced himself back. To deal with his mistakes and assure himself that he would sort out the rest. Like why her wings were so small. Why she’d looked at him as if he was a stranger rather than...
He took to the air. Lurched himself back when he realised he’d begun to follow her once more.
He wasn’t welcome. That much was clear. And she was guarded with her answers, as if it was all about coin and restitution and not...
He shook his head to clear it.
Failed utterly.
Felt a stab in his gut that nearly took the breath from his body. Because he’d left her? Listened to her when she insisted she be on her way?
He landed and took stock of the disaster. Splintered wood and shattered tiles would need to be swept. The damage to the logs themselves would be smoothed away when they were stripped of their bark. He rarely had cause to bring anything of such size into the city itself—everyone wanted everything neatly chopped and ready for their kitchen fires. But these were to serve as pillars for a new dwelling. A wealthy merchant from across the sea that had taken residence. A wooded place, he’d said. Wanted it to feel like home.
As if a few pillars could replace the peace that came from a natural forest. Or the woodlots he planted and tended himself. Neat rows, some taller as they strained toward the sun, determined to outdo their plant-mates.
He rubbed at his side where it hurt. Glanced down to reassure himself he was not actually wounded. There was no blood. No bruise that he could tell. And yet it hurt.
Did it hurt her?
That bothered him more than the pain. To think that perhaps she felt the bond, the tear, to be parted so soon. But there had not been even a hint of recognition in her eyes.