Page 109 of Bound

“Wren?”

He needed a response from her. Deserved a response. He was so good to her, so patient, and she...

“They’re beautiful,” she choked out. “Braum...”

He squeezed her hand, perhaps knowing she was near to panicking. Near to reminding him of all the rest of it, all that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—subject herself to again.

Even... even if it was from him.

But she quieted. And she let him speak instead. “Could we sit a while? Just... sit. I’ll go, after. But I’d like to try it out, if you’re amiable.”

She should pull her hand away.

But she didn’t.

Argue with him when he pulled the straps of her pack off her shoulders and laid it on the new porch steps.

Solid beneath her. Smelling of freshly cut wood and oil and she hadn’t known she loved that smell, but she did.

She wanted to ask him if he’d take his tools back now. If he’d visit and under what pretext.

But instead, she sat. Yelped awkwardly as the seat moved beneath her, and she grappled at the arm of the chair and to him and whatever else she could as he chuckled and held tight. “It moves,” she grumbled, looking at her new chairs with suspicion.

“Forgive me,” Braum murmured, easing into the side beside her—with a great more grace than she had managed, much to her chagrin. “I should have realised you had not experienced one before.”

She huffed. Tried to force herself to relax. To feel the gentle rocking motion that... was rather nice, once she knew to expect it. As the little aches from a long day began to gentle, to ease.

Perhaps Merryweather might leave them alone, after all. Wren doubted she would take to moving chairs any better than she had done.

Which was all right. Because Braum had thought of her, and she’d a cushion to make, and she had to rub at her eyes again. Watch as Braum’s head turned, and he looked at her in that way.

Was she all right? Could he help?

“Thank you,” she managed instead, rubbing at her sleeve and doing her best not to tug at her hair. Because she was fine. And this was fine.

She could enjoy it. It didn’t have to mean anything.

Or maybe it meant everything.

She could decide, later.

For now, they would sit.

17. Rains

It did not take long before Braum began his next project. He did not even bother taking his tools away, and the wood was joined by yet more planks, wrapped neatly in waxed tarps to keep the morning dew and mists away from his boards.

She almost denied him.

When he came to her, smile too certain, her eyes narrowed.

When he talked about filling in the breezeway between the main house and the washroom, she almost sent him away again.

It wasn’t the concept exactly. But she did not appreciate the notion of him poking about in such an area, most particularly when she would need to use it throughout the day with him... about.

That was personal. Private.

And he was wrong to expect her to simply—

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