Page 125 of Bound

There were whispers. As if a conversation was happening in low tones, either in the far end of the kitchen or the porch itself. Another Wren would have called out—if there was anything she should know about her care, she’d need to hear it for herself as there would be no one to tend her.

But this Wren...

This one was too overwrought. Could feel the weight of her father’s attention, the questions that simmered as he tried to let her rest, let her heal.

“Da?” she asked, her voice tight and too high.

Then he was leaning over her, smoothing at her hair and looking too much like the man that had stayed in this very alcove with her mama, flying up to her loft at the smallest word from her.

“Yes, sweet,” he murmured.

“Can you fetch a shift from my trunk? Please? I want one.”

If he felt any strangeness at the request, or the fact that she was in need of one, he didn’t show it. He didn’t have to ask where he’d find it—her furniture was much the same as it had been when he called this place home too. He didn’t make use of the stair—never needed to.

“You taunt the invalid,” she called. Tried to call. But her mouth was dry and her throat was hoarse, so it was more of a whisper.

The door opened. Closed again. The footsteps familiar, if perhaps a little heavier than they had been.

And still, he did not come to her.

Perhaps he would have, if Da hadn’t come back down, one hand filled with a fold of linen.

Or so she told herself, wishing the knot in her stomach would untangle itself.

She wouldn’t have him dress her. Braum either—no matter this business of undressing he’d permitted himself.

Needs must.

She had needed it then, but she didn’t now. There would be chores to see to soon in any case, and she’d have to get used to moving with her wing bound to her torso, keeping it still and quiet.

She sat up. An awkward shuffle that sent twinges of unhappiness through her shoulder, spine, and wing, but she did it. All while keeping the quilts pulled up to her chest as she held out her hand for her shift.

“You’re sure you don’t need my help?” he offered, his voice low and gentle. “Or maybe...” if he offered to get Braum, her cheeks would likely never stop heating.

“I do need help,” she agreed. “Could you check on things in the stable? I asked Braum about the grain, but I don’t know about the milking or the mucking and—”

“Wren,” Da cut in with a sigh. “This is not my first day in this place. You needn’t give me the full list. I’ll see to it.” He squeezed her good shoulder and she nodded, feeling grateful and unsettled all at once.

He left the alcove. Tucked behind the hearth it afforded plenty of privacy even without a door to separate the rooms. Or had, when she was little and knew better than to spy and peek when she’d already been sent to bed.

But it felt different now as she heard the front door open and close once again. It brought the smell of wet earth and fresh rain. A soothing scent that might better be enjoyed out on the porch if she felt well enough for it.

Which she didn’t.

She swiped at her eyes and rubbed her nose and looked down at her shift. It was easy enough to get into. When one had use of all their limbs and could step into it—straps over her shoulders, back cut low enough so as not to bother the joint between back and wings.

Should she stand? Or maintain her modesty with quilts and covered breasts and shimmy and squirm?

That hurt too much. A single attempt made that more than clear.

She needed to stand then. Followed by bending.

That was... Surely that was doable.

Her legs weren’t broken. Bruised—rather badly, if she was truthful. When she allowed the quilts to fall away and she looked down at her skin with an appraising eye. It was no wonder she was so sore, her flesh taking on the mottled hue that would soon blossom into deep purples and blacks where she’d hit the ground hardest.

She didn’t dare turn to see the state of her backside, not if the marks that stretched out from her hip were any indication of how unsightly it was going to be.

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