Page 102 of Bound By Song

I smirk despite myself and scoot forward. “You’re going to regret this.”

He sets up the board between us, tongue poking between his teeth as he arranges the tiles with more focus than I expected.

It turns out I’m very,verygood at Scrabble. And Blaise is...not.

“Is ‘snorfle’ a word?” he asks for the third time, frowning at his letters.

“Not unless you’re a cartoon moose.”

He groans, collapsing dramatically onto a pillow. “I was promised victory. This is betrayal.”

“You were never promised victory,” I say, trying not to laugh. “You literally said I’d humiliate you.”

“Yeah, but I thought that was flirting.”

I shake my head but my cheeks warm. The game continues, him growing more ridiculous with each turn, me biting back laughter more often than not.

After I spell outeviscerateon a triple word score, building on Blaise’s paltryrat, Blaise stares at me in genuine horror.

“Okay,” he says, slowly. “Note to self: never get on your bad side.”

“I thought that was obvious.”

He chuckles, gathering his discarded tiles. “Alright, Scrabble queen. While I nurse my wounded pride – tell me something. You ever left this place? Even for a visit or a holiday elsewhere?”

I shake my head. “Sort of. If going into town for supplies counts and racing straight back home again.”

“It doesn’t,” he says, then adds in a gentler tone, “I figured. You’ve got that small-town stubbornness. The kind you don’t learn in a city.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And you would know?”

Blaise shrugs, stretching out again. “I grew up on a farm. Couple hours north. Sheep, chickens, mud...more mud. You wouldn’t believe how many creative uses there are for baling twine when you’re bored enough.”

I blink at him. “I...didn’t expect that.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t let the hair products and eyeliner fool you. I’m not above wrestling a sheep or two.”

I burst out laughing. “Now that’s something I want to see.”

“Careful,” he says, pointing a finger. “Iwillmake that a date.”

Before I can respond, Xar walks in, sleeves already pushed up, a clean dish towel slung over one shoulder.

“Dinner?” he asks, heading straight for the kitchen.

“I’ll help,” I say, getting up.

“You don’t have to,” Xar replies, already halfway to the fridge.

I pause, then pout. “Do you notwantme to help?”

He turns, blinking at me. “That’s not what I meant.”

I cross my arms. “Feels like it.”

He studies me for a moment, brow furrowing. “Do you actually want to cook, or do you feel like you have to?”

That stops me.

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