Page 73 of Bound

There was pain in that memory. A metallic taste in his mouth that he recognised as blood. The feel of his teeth against his cheek as he bit it harshly to keep from offering a correction as she stumbled over dismissive descriptions of their relationship.

All about the fence, after all.

Not that she enjoyed his company. That she looked forward to his visits.

It was help, begrudgingly accepted, and nothing more.

He’d clung to her admission of their friendship, but then...

Firen wasn’t wrong. Friendships came later. As bond-mates became parents, when families mingled and neighbours helped one another through the trials and joys alike that came with all of it.

Perhaps he had betrayed Wren in some way. By taking advantage of her inexperience. Of shrouding his feelings in something safe, something innocuous.

Rather than the title that clearly terrified her.

She’d heard it before, she’d said.

Then bolted the door and thought he’d be able to simply turn away. To go home and forget about her. Forget what little they’d shared when he wanted the whole of her. The whole of life with her.

If there had ever been a case of a woman having two mates, he’d never heard of it. Couplings after the other had died, perhaps. When companionship was preferable to the crippling loneliness of losing one’s bond-mate.

Perhaps she’d left out a portion of her history. Perhaps she’d sought her mother’s people after she’d been alone here, and a man had treated her poorly.

The thought was enough to make his jaw tighten, his fists to clench. The need to defend, to avenge so real it was almost tangible.

But it wasn’t. And the foe was a faceless threat. An idea rather than something he could hurt.

He flew. Not away. Not as he should.

But away from the door that could have yielded—would have yielded—had he pressed enough force against it. It was not shabbily made, but it lacked a proper overhang to protect against suns and rain alike, and the edges were beginning to crack. To weaken.

Like Wren?

He went up instead.

To the pitch of her roof. Where he landed as quietly as he could, and was greeted with the soft sounds of her tears flittering through the window. The shutters should be better made. Of higher quality to give her more privacy. He could craft new ones. Better ones. Anything at all if only she’d accept them.

A part of him felt guilty for it. A part buried beneath so much turmoil that he could barely detect it at all. He gripped the thatch of her roof, doing his best to keep from pushing through the feeble window that thought to keep him out. To curl himself about her, to hold her as he was finally able when she’d allowed him to bring her here.

She hadn’t wanted it. He was not so much a fool as to think that.

But she’d relented.

He hadn’t appreciated it enough the first time. When necessity and danger had been the force compelling him to take her into his arms and save her from one of his own felled logs.

This time, he savoured.

She was not heavy, but she filled his arms in a way that...

He was ashamed to think of how many times he’d tried to recall the sensation. To remember if she’d been slight, or if there had been a softness to entice and delight him.

He knew now.

Had even revelled in it until...

Until he’d heard her cry.

Felt her crumple.