Page 117 of Bound

Eyes bright and curious as he saw the wind and even made it to opening the front door, fully intent on seeing just how fast it might carry him, since he was strong and big now. His ma’s da had told him so.

Ma had caught him. She always did. Seemed to have more eyes than the two in her head, always aware of Braum’s thoughts even before they’d formed in his own mind.

She’d shut and bolted the door, an even younger Kessa fluttering about her legs, her feet still skimming the floor.

“You’ll hit a tree,” she’d said in that firm way that only Mas seemed able to do. “And if not a tree, then a tower. And then I’ll have to leave Kessa here to come find your broken body. Does that seem wise to you?”

He wanted to argue. He wouldn’t be broken, just bruised a little. But Kessa cried when she was left alone in a room too long, so he supposed it would be even worse if Ma wasn’t two rooms over in the kitchen and able to call for her.

“Fine,” he agreed. And if it came out a little sulky, that was just because he was deeply disappointed not to have been the fastest ever.

Ma raised her brow at him and stooped low. “It is my job to keep you alive. Please don’t make it harder than it has to be.” She placed her hand at the back of his head and pushed their foreheads together, and he might have been big now, but he stilled warmed all over when his ma got close. Didn’t feel at all the same when Kessa clung at him.

“All right,” Braum agreed, this time meaning it more than the last.

She kissed his forehead and messed with his hair, her fingers scratching at his scalp lightly and that was nice too. “Good. We’ll keep the door bolted though, in case of temptation.”

His mouth twisted. He could reach that bolt easy. And he was strong enough now to have it unlatched in no time.

Her hand cupped his chin and her brow quirked again. “That was not a challenge.”

Then she shouldn’t have made it sound like one.

But he didn’t say that. Braum might not have thought much of flying in a storm, but he knew better than to talk back to his mother.

Braum did not think often of his childhood. He did not dwell on old days like Wren seemed to. They were there, a comfort of familiarity, but he thought well on his current days, and he liked to keep his thoughts there. Not too far ahead, either. Not beyond each project he had in mind for Wren’s house. His chest would start aching when he did that. Thought too much. Wondered and sometimes...

Did a little bit more than wonder.

When his dreams turned to wanting. For the mate that should have been in his bed just as resolutely as she had taken residence in his heart. She hadn’t meant to. That’s what she would say if she knew. And she’d give that sorry little smile that meant she was feeling something too near to pity for him. For all she thought he wanted, and all she thought she’d never be able to give him. Give anyone.

She was wrong about that. She was mending. Perhaps she’d never be the same as if the cad hadn’t preyed upon her, but he didn’t need her to be the same. He loved her as she was now. Hair-tugs and coin pouches and all.

Stubborn to a fault.

Kind and self-less so long as one was blessed with more than two legs.

He rolled over. Adjusted his pillow for the fourth time in as many minutes.

The storm was as bad as had been promised, but it was not so unusual as to be cause for concern. He wished he’d seen her that day. That he’d made time to go. But the winds had shaken loose some of the branches in the grove, and he’d spent the day tending to the lots. Trimming before they’d have chance to tear further. It had seemed important at the time, and to what parts of him remained that were not wholly preoccupied with being Wren’s mate, he knew the trees needed him.

Yet he itched all over. A persistent, worrying urge that kept his sleep light and too easily broken by every sound, every whistle of the wind where the logs of his cottage needed a fresh helping of pitch.

It was foolish to fly in a storm.

He repeated that to himself over and over. Tossing and turning until he finally sat, determined to make up the fire and sip hot tea and wait for morning.

Why then did he reach for his clothes instead? Just to be ready. That was all. He wasn’t going. That would be stupid. His mother had told him so.

What good was he to Wren if he hit a tree? Or a tower?

No towers near Wren, though. So it was practically safe, surely. There were no bolts of lightning through the sky. Nothing that a strong back and determined wings couldn’t get through.

It was cold in the cottage, that was all.

His feet were cold too, that’s why he needed two pairs of socks and his best boots.

The hat...

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