Page 134 of Bound

It was different when it was Wren. He’d been given firm instructions on rewrapping her wing every few days, and he’d yet to attempt it. After a proper bath seemed reason enough.

Where the water wouldn’t be too hot. Or too cold. He never wanted to see her chilled through ever again.

She was at the table with Merryweather. He wanted to banish her back to bed, but she claimed her hip was sore from lying on it so long. He suspected it was sore from the black bruise that covered a great deal of it, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. It was wrong to argue with an invalid, she said. Didn’t he know that?

Growing up, it had been wrong to argue with his mother, sick or otherwise, but maybe it was different for her.

So it would be different for him.

And besides, it meant he did not have to lean quite so far to place a kiss on her lips. Her cheek. The top of her head.

He tried not to do it too often. Watched her carefully for signs that his affection was unwanted, or even simply allowed an indulgence on her part.

But she would get that soft, wistful smile on her lips, and her eyes would be warm as she looked at him, and that was simply an encouragement to add more throughout the day.

“Did you...”

“Your balms are added to the water, as you already requested.” Another kiss, this one to her temple, so it would not feel neglected. “You think my memory as short as that?”

She shrugged. Tried to shrug. Which rewarded them both with one of her pained hisses followed by a huff of frustration.

Which he hated. Hated that she hurt, hated the flare of renewed guilt he felt each time she felt a twinge or an ache. Instincts knew no rationalisations. No justifications. She was his responsibility. In all things.

And yet...

He liked that he knew the crinkle of her nose. Liked that he could guess her responses even before she gave them. She was no stranger to him, this woman. Which felt more right than he could have thought possible.

The addition of Wren’s brews had turned the water to a milky pool of fragrant steam. She wanted his arm for the trek down the hall. He hadn’t anticipated that, most particularly given her fervent stance that she could utilise this room alone.

But they’d agreed about the bath. Yet somehow he’d imagined she’d want to situate herself in privacy. Perhaps drape a few cloths here and there to hide what the opaque water did not quite cover.

He swallowed.

It was tantalising. This closeness that did not include the assurance of fulfilment. Appreciating the trust she placed in him. To care for her during her convalescence. To love her unselfishly.

Was it wrong to admit there was love? Was there such a thing as too soon between mates?

He never would have thought so, and yet with his Wren, he never knew which matters would trouble her. Would hurt instead of comfort.

She sighed when he undid the bandages. And his appreciation for her slender back, the curve of her shoulders, was tempered by the stiffness of her wings, huddled against her shoulder blades. The angry skin that lay between where bone and matted feathers met natural skin.

Her wings twitched, and he could well imagine the desire she barely suppressed to stretch and unfurl after being bound for so long. He brought his hands to her unbroken wing and massaged gently, and was rewarded by her back arching as a groan escaped her. “Better?”

The feathers needed attention. They must be uncomfortable, ruffled and backward as a few of them had become. Others were hanging limp and ready to fall, yet unable to from the wrappings. How did she reach them at all? With no one to help her with them as new ones needed to be unsheathed?

No more.

“Would you like a moment?” Braum asked, voice a little too low and strained. He’d give her anything, including privacy, if she wanted it from him.

“Hmm?” she asked, her own tone a little hazy. “Oh,” she murmured, his words evidently registering. She glanced down at the water, then back toward him. “Just a bath, yes?”

As if being involved in her bath was not privilege enough. As if she had to worry he would insist upon more while she was hurt. Both inside and out. Old wounds and new.

“Didn’t your mother have rules about invalids being propositioned for anything else? If so, it was a grave oversight.”

He was rewarded with one of her smiles, the kind that was wistful and warm with just a hint of sadness about the edges. “She must have neglected to share that one.”

He hummed. Smoothed his hand between her shoulders, on the reddened skin that looked so desperately in need of a salve. “We are fortunate, then, that mine did not neglect that particular education.”

---