Page 77 of Bound

A cup of water filled at the tap. Drunk quickly, as she had not realised her own thirst, then refilled. A bit of hard cheese. A salty biscuit. A handful of nuts. All placed on a plate rather than nibbled on one at a time because she was civilised and she would not entertain anymore of her own foolishness.

She was fine.

She’d been fine before the market. Before Firen and her honesty.

She’d be fine again now that Braum was gone. Would stay gone.

Wren forced herself to sit.

And if she couldn’t quite keep her attention from the lamp and its prisoner, then...

A bite. A careful swallow. More water.

She sighed. Closed her eyes.

And freed the note from its confines. Smoothed it out with more care than was necessary. But it felt necessary. For reasons she could not name.

Her father had taught her to read. Her mother also, although their languages were different. She was forgetting her mother’s tongue now that she had no one to share it with. And it saddened her more than she could say.

She had to squint to make out any letters at all, far more used to the blocky type of her father’s books than hand-written notes scrawled haphazardly over a slip of paper.

But she tried. Wishing it was morning so the suns might help her.

Wishing more so that she had burned it before she’d thought any better of it.

She heard a quiet chirp from the top of the loft, and she turned her head to catch the shadowy form of an indignant Merryweather staring down at her. “Well, come on, then. You can read it too.”

A long stretch. A careful consideration.

Then the flurry of graceful movement as she jumped neatly down the stairs and to Wren’s side.

And stole a crumb of cheese for her efforts as well.

Wren hugged her close just the once. For comfort. For courage.

Then squinted down at the paper and did her best to make out the words.

I am patient, Wren. I will not give up on you... Please do not give up on me.

Your friend,

Braum

It was a testament to how many tears she’d already shed that she could stare down at the page with dry eyes. She pushed it toward Merryweather, but she was more interested in investigating what remained on Wren’s plate—yet gave the edge a sniff of consideration, anyway.

“What do you think it means?” Wren asked her, sighing as she rested it back on the tabletop. Smoothed it again because she didn’t like how she’d crumpled it as she read. “Well, you don’t know what it means because you weren’t here the last time.”

A lump settled in her throat. Not tears, but a warning. Not to press, not to speak of it, even to Merryweather—most excellent secret-keeper though she was.

Easier to pretend it hadn’t happened. Which was fine when she was tucked away at home. When she didn’t have people pestering her about fetes and mates and all the rest that came afterward.

She took Merryweather into her arms and buried her face in her fur. “I liked him,” she breathed. A confession that burned and humiliated as it came out, but she almost felt better for having admitted it to someone. “And somehow that makes it worse.”

Merryweather wriggled, not for release, but so that she could tuck her head against Wren’s neck. “Did you like him? I’m sorry if you did. We can’t have him back now, you know. It isn’t safe.”

She glanced at the paper. At the final plea he’d given her.

How could she not give up on him? She had to. He’d signed it as her friend rather than her supposed mate, but that did not change how he saw himself. What his expectations inevitably entailed.