Page 70 of Threadbound

“You can pick whichever chair you want,” Jamie told him, looking over one shoulder.

Bran settled on Jamie’s office chair so that he could use the desk—which had a half-clear surface—for his plate. Jamie came over and handed him a glass of wine—a deep red—and a set of silverware and a folded paper towel that Bran assumed was in lieu of a napkin.

Bran offered Jamie a smile, since he still couldn’t make himself actually thank the half-breed. Jamie smiled back at him, although he looked amused, one half of his mouth curving even more upward.

“What?” Bran asked, unable to help himself.

“You really don’t say ‘thank you,’ do you?” Jamie asked. “Momma said that fair—faedon’t like it when you thank them.”

Bran couldn’t help the smile that lifted his own lips. “We dinna,” he confirmed. “It’s considered rude.”

“Why?” Jamie asked.

Bran blinked. “Well, because it’s offering words instead of returning whatever it is in kind,” he replied. “For instance, I owe you a lot of meals.”

“You don’t, though,” Jamie protested, now looking decidedly uncomfortable. “I don’t mind feeding you.”

The smile on Bran’s lips was sardonic now. “And I dinna mind eating your food,” he replied. “But I am becoming verra deep in debt to you, Jamie Weaver.”

The color was back in Jamie’s cheeks, and he shrugged before turning back to the kitchen to fix his own plate. Jamie sat in the recliner, balancing his plate, utensils, and glass of wine with an ease that suggested he probably did that nearly every day. “I don’t want you to be in debt to me,” Jamie said softly, setting his wine on the little table beside the recliner.

Bran swallowed his mouthful of cheesy pasta. “That doesna change the debt,” Bran replied, just as softly.

Jamie made a discontented noise. “Can I make younotowe me a debt?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

“Oh, aye,” Bran replied. “But it’s going to take a while, and you’ll need to almost die at least twice.”

Jamie stared down at his plate, pushing his pasta with his fork. “How about without almost dying?” he muttered, sounding unhappy, even to Bran’s inexperienced-with-human-emotions ears.

It was the opposite of what Bran had been led to believe would be the human response to being owed by a fae. Every legend Bran had ever heard, every tale he’d been shown from both Elfhame and Dunehame—more from Elfhame, admittedly—involved humans doing their best to make sure that if they encountered a fae, they came out of the meeting with the fae owing them something. The bigger, the better, as far as the humans were concerned.

Either Jamie hadn’t read the stories or he was a completely different kind of human. Well, half-human. But whether Jamie liked it or not, Bran was still in his debt. And he couldn’t seem to stop himself from getting in even deeper.

Jamie had droppedthe issue of Bran paying him back, turning the conversation to other things—like asking Bran a thousand questions about Elfhame, about magic, about what it felt like toshift from a person to a raven… Bran had done his best to answer as many of them as he could, although he wasn’t always sure what Jamie was trying to ask him or how to answer so that the half-breed understood him.

During a lull in the barrage of questions, Jamie had gotten up and refilled both their plates, a small version of his lopsided smile in place as he watched Bran eat for a few seconds. Then a frown pushed it out of place. “Bran—have you been eating anything other than what I’ve been leaving out for you?”

“Oh, aye,” he replied—honestly—after swallowing the bite he’d immediately put in his mouth. “Although with the start of fall, there have been fewer tourists leaving out scraps.”

He realized that he probably shouldn’t have been that honest at the horrified expression on Jamie’s face.

“It isna that bad!”

Jamie definitely didn’t believe him. “Bran, you’re what? Eatingtrash?”

Bran grimaced. He admitted that it didn’t sound very good—or healthy—but ravens were carrion-eaters. He could have eaten roadkill rats and pigeons and survived just fine. Somebody’s discarded cold chips were much more appealing when put in that light. But he didn’t think Jamie would appreciate the comparison. “Unfinished meals,” he replied. “I dinna go digging through the bins for it.” He would have, he supposed, if he’d needed to. But he hadn’t, so it wasn’t a lie.

Jamie had made that unnecessary, though, by providing first crackers and, then, for some reason Bran didn’t know, actual meals. Meat, fruit, nuts, breads. Whatever reason Jamie’d had, Bran had been grateful. A little resentful, given how much he owed Jamie, but grateful nonetheless.

“You should have told me,” Jamie muttered, stabbing a noodle with his fork. “I would have fed you.”

“You did feed me,” Bran pointed out. “Every night.”

“That wasn’t enough to survive on!”

Some days, it had been. “I found other food,” Bran replied. He’d been too nervous about shifting to go buy food, the way he had before thegeàrd soilleirpoisoned him, so he’d made do.

“Not enough,” Jamie retorted. “You’re so thin.”

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