Page 72 of Bound

It was a nice thought.

She dropped her bag onto the kitchen table.

Allowed him to continue because she found she did not have to hear it, anyway. Not really.

Not if she moved toward the loft. If she balanced on the stair and undid her boots with numb fingers. They didn’t belong where she left them. One toppled over and the other before tumbling to the floor below.

That was all right, too.

She unbuttoned the strap of her coverall. First one, then the other.

Left her shirt and decided it was good enough. Because she was by the bed and her mother’s quilt was folded neatly at the foot—or had been, before Merryweather had left her prominent imprint upon its surface.

She pulled it up and tucked it over her head, and felt the bed shift as Merryweather came to curl up along her back, a throaty hum coming from her chest, pleased to have Wren home no matter the circumstances.

Wren waited for the tears to come anew. She did not think she had cried herself out, not when she knew of the relief that came along with the pounding head and dry mouth and pile of handkerchiefs destined for the wash.

It was only the when sounds stopped. When she was certain that Braum had listened to her after all. When he’d... gone.

Just as she’d urged. Just as she’d meant.

And yet that was when the hollowness in her chest shattered. Bled. When old memories and new fears mingled and tormented. Until she clutched a pillow to her chest and buried her head and cried.

Mourned.

For a friendship that she’d trusted.

For a man that she’d come to admire.

Who wanted more than she could give.

She turned over, her face hot and already swollen. “Is it so bad, Merry? Just the two of us? I rather like it.”

A paw reached out. Fell short of her face and pressed against her chest instead as Merryweather chirped lightly in answer. “You send your husbands away. Your kits too. Does it hurt like this to do it?”

Merryweather only blinked slowly, and Wren sighed deeply, burying her hand in soft fur, and waited for sleep to come. Or maybe to feel strong again.

Or maybe to hear Braum knock once more upon her door.

Wretched creature that she was, she feared it was the last after all.

13. Other

Braum could not leave her.

He’d bargained with himself, concocted rules to make himself feel better about the delicate balance of his own screaming instincts and the need to respect boundaries.

Respect her.

But his instincts were winning.

She’d asked him to leave. Told him to leave. With that haunted look in her eyes that spoke of much more than the history shared of her parents. Of an ill-advised courtship, a mating that wasn’t properly bound.

This was more.

He’d begged to be allowed to follow. To sit with her, to make her a cup of tea. To press her leptus into her arms so it might give the comfort he could not offer. He thought he’d known desperation before. When he’d first watched her walk away from him.

When he watched the way her lip curled, her shoulders curled at the mere prospect that he might be her mate.