Page 113 of Threadbound

“You dinna want any?” the fae asked, confusion and what might have been hurt evident on his delicate features.

“No! I do!” Jamie hastily corrected. “I was—thinking about something else.” His cheeks were even hotter now. “I—” He swallowed, then gestured at the small living space. “Please, come in and sit down. I’ll get us some plates.”

When Jamie came back with plates, forks, knives, and a couple squares of paper towel, he noticed that Bran had taken off his coat, revealing a dark grey sweater. As he moved, Jamie caught a glimpse of green at one wrist—the bracelet Jamie’d made him. The fact that he was wearing it made warmth pool in Jamie’s stomach. He also noticed that Bran had set a heavy bag down beside where he was sitting at Jamie’s desk.

“Are you staying?” Jamie asked, trying to decide if he should be offended at Bran’s presumption or whether he should give in to the part of him excited by the possibility. The pretty substantial part of him.

Jamie couldn’t read the emotion that flickered across Bran’s face—couldn’t tell if it was guilt or confusion or excitement. “I would like to, if you dinna mind,” came the soft response, the words tinged with something Jamie didn’t quite understand. When Jamie hesitated, uncertain of his own feelings, Bran offered him a small, sardonic smile. “But I dinna need to,” he said softly. “I understand you may not want?—”

“I would like it if you did,” Jamie blurted, his heart overriding his head. “I just…” He sighed. “I don’t have anything.No food.” His face was on fire, and there was a pit of shame in his stomach. “I can’t?—”

“I can help,” Bran interrupted him. The fae bent and opened the over-stuffed satchel, undoing a heavy buckle before reaching inside to pull out a simple leather wallet, which he passed to Jamie, who numbly took it. “Think of it as you will—a gift, or as repayment.”

Jamie didn’t open it. “You don’t?—”

“I want to,” Bran continued, his voice gentle. He tucked his chin, as though he were nervous about what he was going to say. “There will never be a day that I regret having met you, debt or no.”

The flush in Jamie’s cheeks shifted—it didn’t lessen, but it was definitely different now. Pleased and a little embarrassed, but not ashamed. “I—I’m glad I met you, too,” he mumbled, barely able to glance up at the fae through his eyelashes.

For a moment, Bran looked pleased, although he quickly smoothed all emotion from his features. “Then let me help,” the fae repeated.

Jamie opened the wallet, then sucked in a sharp breath. “This is?—”

“Is my life worth less?” Bran asked him, pointedly, although it sounded as though he were amused, not angry.

“N-no, of course not,” Jamie stammered.

“Then take it.”

Jamie chewed on his lower lip. Bran had given him enough to cover rent and food for at least three or four months, if the glimpse of numbers at the corner of a few of the bills was any indication. “Where did it come from?”

Bran spread his hands. “We can spin coin,” he replied simply. “And the banks will exchange that coin for bills.”

“You spun this many coins?”

Bran’s lips quirked. “We have caches of mortal coin for things like this. It means nothing in Elfhame, but it can ease our way in Dunehame.”

Jamie frowned.

“It isna stealing,” Bran told him, reading the doubt in Jamie’s hesitation. “No mortal lost it so that we might grow rich.”

Jamie supposed that was true. “You do it often enough, you’ll cause inflation,” he muttered.

“I dinna make that much,” Bran replied. “Only enough to compensate for the trouble I’ve caused.”

Jamie let his lips quirk to one side, although it was half sardonic. He needed the money, and it meant that they would be able to eat something other than beans and packet noodles tomorrow.But don’t thank him, he reminded himself. Fae didn’t like to be thanked. “I accept,” he said, instead, and Bran smiled—a full smile that immediately melted Jamie’s sentimental and irrational heart. “We should eat, before it gets cold,” he said, not knowing how to acknowledge or grapple with the surging emotions brought up by Bran’s simple gesture.

Bran handed him one of the two takeaway boxes, and Jamie opened it to transfer the food onto a plate while Bran did the same from the desk chair. Then Jamie settled himself in his recliner, his mouth already watering as he picked up a fry—chip, he reminded himself—liberally dosed with malt vinegar. Someday he would actually start thinking in Scots English. Maybe.

“Yourgealach marcaicheis refusing to leave the Court,” Bran said softly, after they’d both taken several bites of fish and chips.

Jamie looked up, surprised. “Is Patch okay?” he asked, worried.

“Aye, she seems to be. She was eating and occasionally came to beg for attention,” Bran replied. “Eadar will look after her.”

“Her?”

“Aye,” Bran’s lips quirked again. “You dinna look?”

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