Page 43 of Threadbound

“And maybe I’ve got to let it fucking go,” Jamie muttered to himself as he cut bread into little squares and smeared margarine on the pieces. After all, he barely knew Bran. They’d eaten dinner together twice, that was all. Well, three times, if you wanted to call what they’d had brutally early this morningdinner.

They’d talked about Jamie’s work, a little about Bran’s, and exchanged small talk about the museum before Jamie haddecided to open his big mouth and ask why Bran was interested in him, which is what had ended their non-relationship before it had even begun.

And now Bran was sleeping in his bed, using his shower, and about to eat his food.

And it definitely wasn’t under any of the circumstances that Jamie had fantasized about. Because at no point had he wanted Bran hurt—and he definitely hadn’t imagined either or both of them potentially being in danger of being beaten to death.

“Stoppit, Jamie,” he hissed at himself, sprinkling garlic powder on the bread, then putting the cookie sheet in the oven. And then he leaned back against the counter, covering his face with his hands. And then he jumped several inches when the timer went off. “Shit!”

He sucked in a breath to slow his racing heart and aggressively thumbed the button on the timer to shut off its incessant beeping. Then he took a couple more breaths, bent over the sink, his palms on the edge of the counter.

Jamie was exhausted, scared, and a little sore himself, although nothing like what Bran must be feeling. That, and Jamie was used to having bruised ribs. It had been a while, but the feeling was depressingly familiar.

He also had no idea what was going on or what to do about it.

“Jamie?” Bran’s voice startled him again, and he whipped around, sucking in air.

Bran was standing just outside the bathroom, which also put him just outside the kitchen, given the positively tiny size of Jamie’s apartment. Bran had his good hand braced against the wall and was wearing Jamie’s clothes, the pantlegs rolled up, Jamie’s t-shirt hanging halfway down his thighs.

“Um. Are you.” Jamie stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “How are you feeling?”

Bran didn’t answer him. “Is something burning?” he asked, instead.

“Oh,shit!” Jamie spun around again pulling open the oven to discover that the outside edges of his sad garlic bread were rather darker than he wanted them to be, although at least the middles looked like they were still edible. He grabbed the hot pad on the counter and moved the pan from the oven to the stovetop. “Damn,” he muttered down at the slightly-burnt garlic bread. “Sorry,” he said a little louder.

“For what?” Bran asked him.

Jamie looked over his shoulder at the smaller man. “Burning part of dinner?”

Bran shrugged, winced, then grimaced. “I dinna mind.”

Jamie was skeptical, but since he was already going to be stretching his monthly food budget to feed Bran to begin with, he wasn’t going to throw out the bread. He’d eat the pieces that were more burnt. It was still food.

“Have a seat in the recliner,” he told Bran. Jamie could sit at his desk if he moved the notes out of the way. “I’ll bring you some casserole and… toast.”

“All right.” Bran shuffled his way over to the chair, and Jamie watched long enough to make sure that he’d be okay getting himself settled—which he was, even though he was moving slowly—before dishing up bowls of casserole and sticking little squares of partially-burnt garlic toast in them.

Jamie brought one to Bran first, then moved his notes so that he’d have somewhere to eat before bringing out his own dinner. Jamie had been ravenously hungry as he was cooking, but now that he had food in front of him, he couldn’t find the appetite that had been gnawing at his stomach all day. He stirred the noodles in his bowl, then nibbled on a burnt end of toast soaked in the creamy sauce.

“This is good,” Bran said softly, a fork-full of casserole on its way to his mouth.

Jamie’s lips quirked in a weak half-smile. “Thanks.”

Bran suppressed the frown that wanted to furrow his brow, reminding himself that Jamie, even though he was a half-breed, didn’t live by the rules of fae society. To him, athank youwas polite, not rude. Bran forced a smile, instead, although he needn’t have bothered, since Jamie was staring down morosely into his noodles.

Bran did frown then, bothered by the fact that Jamie was clearly upset or worried about something. “What’s bothering you?” he asked.

Jamie looked up at him, his blue eyes soulful. “Other than the fact that someone tried to kill you?” he asked, and Bran felt the question like a hit to the sternum.

The fae wanted to say that he didn’t understand why Jamie was so bothered by an attack onhim, but then he’d be lying to himself—it bothered him that Jamie had been put in harm’s way because of the vendetta between the Sluagh and Sidhe Courts. It also bothered him that he owed Jamie his life. That he’dhadto owe Jamie his life.

Bran knew full well that thegeàrd soilleirhad been sent to kill him, most likely as a means of curtailing his father’s attempt to undermine the Sidhe King. Cairn mac Darach had been working for longer than Bran had been alive to keep his uncle, Cuileann mac Eug, the Sluagh King, from death. It was widely believed in the Court of Shades that the Sidhe King, Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha, was responsible for his half-brother’s crippling sickness, a rumor Bran had no reason to think wasn’t true.

It had been Bran’s duty to help to find a cure—or at least something more useful in slowing the spread of whatever poison it was that was ravaging the body of the Sluagh King. A dutyhe had been neglecting in his thus-far-futile attempts to find a way to stabilize the magic that would likely be required to both produce that cure and to protect the Court of Shades once the Sidhe King learned that his attempted regicide had failed once and for all.

If Darach mac Craobh-na-Beatha was sending thegeàrd soilleirto killhim, it must have meant that something had happened. Either Cuileann’s illness had progressed, or perhaps Cairn’s healing was having a noticeable effect, or maybe something else had spurred the Sidhe King into action. Having been here, in Dunehame, Bran didn’t know. He only knew that whatever had happened would have left him dead if not for Jamie.

Given that, it was possible that thegeàrdwould now target them both. Which meant that not only did Bran owe Jamie his life, but he also would owe him an additional debt for the danger he’d put the half-breed in.

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