Page 95 of Bound

Her grip did not loosen on her braid, but she kept quiet. Waiting.

Until he looked at her.

The scowl softening, his expression warming, even if his sigh spoke of a long-suffering patience that was near to an end.

He reached for her. Cupped her chin in his large palm, and made sure she was looking properly. “None will hear that tale from me. Not my sister, not the market. And until you wish it, not the law, either. I want your trust, Wren. I’ll not treat lightly any crumbs that you give me.”

She wasn’t going to cry. Not for him, and not for herself.

But she might have wanted to. For the girl she might have been. The one that might have loved him a little, for how well he respected her.

Not the one she was currently. That felt her insides curl and was afraid of it, afraid of him. Of what he made her feel and how it might be used against her.

How it might be taken away.

She chewed at her lip, and he didn’t sigh at her. Didn’t huff and puff that she was slow and frightened and that she wasn’t warming to him fast enough.

Instead, he got to his feet and offered his hand, and she knew he wouldn’t glare at her if she refused it.

Which made it easier to take it so he could help her up. And if she liked the way her hand felt in his, then that was just an admiration of his strength, just as she might give to anyone.

He didn’t tarry. Didn’t coax out promises or insist on coming back again. Which was good. Saved her the trouble of telling him not to come back. He did lean down and pick up his mug, handing it to her with a hint of hesitation. “You wouldn’t let me wash those, would you?”

She rolled her eyes and almost said yes, simply to prove him wrong.

“You suppose correctly,” Wren muttered instead, retrieving the mug and holding it close to her own.

He laughed, short, but warm. It was a begrudging admission to herself, but she liked the sound of it. “Someday,” he concluded, and her mouth twisted ruefully.

He might be right. She didn’t seem able to stick to her stubborn resolve quite so well when he was about, which was a frightening prospect all its own.

“We’ll see,” she managed, her insides twisting again. Because... that meant he’d come back. Wanted to come back. Except he wasn’t supposed to. Or she wasn’t supposed to want him to, or...

Merryweather bolted through the door as she opened it, startling her as she nearly tripped on her companion, and she was rewarded with another of his laughs, this time fuller. Richer.

She bolted the door, because she could, and because she was almost ready to urge him back into the house to wash the mugs after all as punishment and that...

That felt a little too near to what her parents had once shared. Laughing and shared chores and simply... living.

And it had been good, for a while.

But her mother had still died alone.

It was a sobering reminder. And when she looked out the window, he was already gone, leaving her to wash and try to get a hold of her thoughts, of the turn of the day and the little compartments in her mind and heart that were suddenly open.

And she had no one to ask what to do with them.

“You’re no help,” she reminded Merryweather, who batted at her elbow with her nose, suggesting her luncheon in the stable had been inadequate. “You’re perfectly happy after your husbands leave you with your kits.”

She picked her up. Gave her a squeeze and prayed that would not be her fate.

16. Sit

Wren didn’t expect him back so soon. Not that she expected him back at all.

She’d been tending the morning chores, her arms weighted down with the milk pails as Temperance and Calliope bellowed their displeasure that she hadn’t opened the stall doors for them to meander toward the pasture. One was destined for the spring house, the other the kitchen, but she stopped abruptly to see Braum at the fence line, milk splashing out and wetting her boot.

Her mouth twisted into a scowl. She hated the waste, but she hated wet boots more than anything, and she hadn’t worn her waxed pair as the skies were clear and the winds mild.