Page 131 of Threadbound

“D’you think that’s likely?” The question seemed genuine.

Jamie shrugged, agitated. “I don’t know. I mean, I know how they’d react if I needed money or help moving or if I needed a ride to the airport or the hospital, but this… I don’t have any idea how either of them will react to the idea that magic is real and there’s a-whole-nother world out there full of weird creatures.” Jamie’s cheeks darkened further. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

Bran—who arguably was one of those ‘weird creatures’—simply pressed his lips together, although he didn’t appear any more upset than he had already been. Jamie still felt bad.

“I am sorry,” he repeated. “I?—”

“I am na’ offended,” Bran interrupted, although Jamie didn’t like the flat tone of his voice. But that could just have been stress and worry. Or maybe he just didn’t want to fight with Jamie, not that Jamie wanted to fight with him, either.

“I am sorry. I meant?—”

Bran sighed. “I know what you meant.” He didn’t say it unkindly, but Jamie still felt it like a slap.

Jamie knew his face had to be beet red. “I?—”

“Please let it go,” the fae interrupted.

Jamie shut up, but he didn’t stop feeling guilty. He hadn’t thought that he was acting any differently, but an hour or so later, while Jamie was finishing up the dishes and the cookies were all cooling in a pile on a plate, Bran sighed. “Jamie, I wasna offended. Please stop treating me as though I am made of crystal.”

Jamie looked over his shoulder, startled. “I—” He’d been about to deny it, but then realized that he had, in fact, been overly careful not to say anything or do anything that might upset Bran. A legacy, he knew, of growing up in a household where a wrong word, a too-loud sound, or a step that led to bumping a table would end with a black eye, a split lip, or—if he was lucky—the heat of an open-palm slap across his cheek.

Not that he thought Bran would act at all like Bill Eckel… but old habits died hard.

“Sorry,” Jamie mumbled, his face pointed down at the dirty dishwater.

“Jamie.”

Jamie drew another breath to apologize, then sucked it in even more sharply at the feeling of Bran’s palm on the small of his back, twitching involuntarily.

“Why are you afraid of me?” Bran asked softly, pulling his hand away.

“I—I’m not. Not of you.” Jamie sighed, the sound a mix of frustration, sadness, and guilt.

“Then why?—?”

“My… stepfather,” Jamie said softly. He hadn’t talked about Bill Eckel to anyone since he’d lived at home, and even then he hadn’t exactly talked about it. He hadn’t had to—not really. Hismath teacher hadn’t needed to ask—Maynardville was a small enough town that everybody knew what was happening—and it was also the type of town where nobody did anything about it. Not the doctors or nurses, not the cops, not his teachers—except for Mr. Horenik, who had let Jamie stay in his dead mother’s trailer. Jamie was grateful he had, but while it provided shelter, it hadn’t addressed the actual problem.

“He hurt you?” Bran’s tone was angry, and Jamie was too nervous to look at him, keeping his eyes firmly focused on the suds dissipating in the water around his hands.

Emotion was too thick in the back of Jamie’s throat, so he just shrugged down into the tepid bubbles.

“I willna ever hurt you, Jamie.” This time, Bran’s tone was soft. “Can I touch you?” Bran asked him.

Jamie nodded, and a gentle hand once again made contact with his lower back. This time, he didn’t flinch, instead leaning back into the warmth of Bran’s palm. He wanted to believe what the fae said—but Bill Eckel had promised the same thing to his momma. To him. Bill Eckel had lied.

Jamie desperately wanted Bran to be telling the truth.

He leaned back, and the hand on his back slid around to his side, its fellow coming to rest on Jamie’s other hip, something warm that Jamie suspected was Bran’s cheek or forehead resting against his spine. “I will never hurt you,” the fae repeated softly. “I canna.”

Jamie let out a sigh. “What do you mean, youcan’t? Because of the threadbond?”

He couldn’t identify the sound Bran made—something between a laugh, a sigh, and a groan, maybe? “No, not because of the threadbond.”

Jamie wanted to press, wanted to ask why. But he couldn’t make himself do it.

Bran answered him anyway. “I canna hurt you, Jamie Weaver, because I love you.”

Emotion balled in the back of Jamie’s throat. Whatever he’d been expecting—and he couldn’t have said what that was—that hadn’t been it.

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