Page 84 of Bound

Watching her.

And all the peace she’d cultivated was suddenly gone as her mouth grew dry and she felt grubby and caught out as she lazed about with the grimbles rather than working.

Her toes were still in the pond, and she more than remembered how it felt to have him fish her out of it.

No.

Wren rebuked all of those feelings.

She could laze if she wanted to. Appreciate her creatures however she pleased.

She did not brush off her overalls as she stood. Picked up her boots and did not bother to replace her stockings, not when her toes were still damp.

Some grasses grew dry over the long summer, and they prickled at her feet as she approached him. She wasn’t hiding. She also would not wait for him to have to speak first. “I’ve something for you,” she offered in lieu of a proper greeting. Her mother would not think kindly of it, but she could not afford to be friendly.

He was not expecting it, that much was certain. She glanced at him as she went through the gate, bolting it properly behind her. He did not look well. Tired. Worn thin—although it was a poorly description when his physique remained as burly as ever.

It was his eyes, she decided. Feeling...

Guilty.

She shoved it down.

Tucked it into the box of all the other things she wasn’t going to think about, and walked toward the house.

She’d stopped carrying the pouch in her pocket as she had the first days since the market. She couldn’t abide the thought of losing them, and it became clear as the days wore on that he was going to give her more time than she’d anticipated before striking another claim on her time and attention.

Something prickled, sharp and insistent. She was not being fair. He’d only ever been generous with her even... even amid all his deceptions.

It made the walk a little heavier, made her more anxious as she opened the door and debated whether to allow him in. Manners warred with self-preservation, and she could not decipher which took precedence.

Wren owed him nothing. Or... wouldn’t. Once she got him to accept the pouch of coins.

She settled for leaving the door open, placing her boots and socks on just inside as she went in. Wasn’t surprised when he hovered in the doorway rather than entering without her express permission. He’d done that from the start. Been careful of her, been mindful of boundaries she hadn’t even given aloud.

Her stomach tightened as she reached into the cupboard and pulled out the pouch her father had given her. He’d fight her—she expected that. She’d lain awake many nights since, trying to rehearse what she might say. Some attempts were harsh. Perhaps even spiteful. Then she’d tried to be soft and cajoling, although even in her imaginings he’d still never accepted her payment.

But she hadn’t expected him to look so tired. A thin smile. A warm word. Not this quiet, pained creature that haunted her doorway and made her feel more like setting the kettle to boil than to begin an argument.

A tug on her braid for courage.

Then she moved toward him and held out her hand. “Payment. For your help. And my thanks along with it.”

He stared at the pouch, his expression revealing nothing at all. It was enough to make her want to squirm, but she didn’t. Only moved nearer so he wouldn’t have to step inside at all to take it and be off again. She jingled it, just a little, so he’d know that she hadn’t skimped him. Hoped she hadn’t, at least. “My father guessed the price since you didn’t give one.”

Was that too pointed? Her tone was as genial as she could make it, her emotions a tumult of too much conflict. She couldn’t afford to be soft. Compassionate. She’d been that before, convinced of just how hard things were for a man without his mate to comfort him, and she would not indulge that nonsense again. Not for anyone.

Then why wasn’t it easier when it was Braum?

He looked at her at last, blinking twice as if coming out of whatever state had kept him since he’d seen in her in the pasture. “That is all? I take your coin and leave here and... what then?”

She thought of his note. Of his promise. His plea.

She tried her best to keep from flinching.

It felt dishonest to allow him to think the coins were hers. And perhaps she did not owe him anything, not even the truth, but it would bother her afterwards. “My father’s coins,” she clarified, jingling the pouch again and more than grateful when his hand came and took them from her. Perhaps this business would not have to be so hard after all.

Wren couldn’t bring herself to expound. To tell him she hadn’t coin enough for what his labour was worth. He’d pity her, and she did not want that. Wanted him to turn and fly away off to his groves and leave her be.