Page 121 of Threadbound

Jamie pushed himself up, sucking in a breath as he slid from Bran’s body. He brushed feathered hair from Bran’s sweaty face with one hand. “I don’t ever want to hurt you,” he whispered.

Bran smiled at him “You willna,” he replied.

Jamie took Bran’s face between his palms and kissed him. “Promise me you won’t ever let me.”

“I promise.”

Then he jumped half a foot when the oven timer went off. “Shit!”

Bran gave him a questioning look.

“I, ah, reheated our dinner. Since we got… distracted.” Jamie felt a flush creep up his neck.

Bran smiled. “I dinna mind being distracted,” he replied, and the flush on Jamie’s neck spread to his face.

Bran gave him a quick kiss before releasing him. Jamie pulled a few pieces of paper towel off the roll, dampening them with warm water, then offering them to Bran before cleaning himself up. Then he came back to Bran, leaning in for another kiss, this one tender rather than scorching.

“Dinner?” Bran asked him softly when he pulled back.

“Oh, shit.” Jamie stepped across the kitchen and turned off the oven, then pulled his sweats back on before pulling the tray out of the oven.

Then he returned to Bran again, settling his hands on the fae’s waist and resting his forehead against Bran’s. “I?—”

Bran kissed him, then pulled back, running his hands over Jamie’s face. “There is nowhere I would rather be, and no one I would rather be with, understand?”

Jamie blinked rapidly, surprised at the emotion pushing against his lids. He nodded.

Bran smiled. “Good. Dinner?”

Jamie gave a half-smile, the curve lifting one side of his lips. “Dinner,” he agreed.

Chapter

Forty-Two

Jamie was at work, and Bran was paging through Jamie’s notebooks—with Jamie’s permission—looking at the drawings and listed ingredients of various recipes from the same book as the one that had contained the drawing of theanail an duine mhairbh—the dead man’s breath. The same recipe had included bothite a selchidh—selkie’s flipper—andseudan a ainnir—maiden’s jewels, but Bran was suspicious about several other things he’d found.

He thought there was a chance that another drawing, for a different recipe in the same book, might be acuach a mhara—a mermaid’s curl—and another atiodhlac a gruagach—a gruag’s gift. But the other ingredients he either couldn’t identify or were things he knew to be from Dunehame. But he’d started making notes and sketches of his own on a separate pad Jamie had given him, drawing the plants, labeling the parts and their uses, and then listing off things they were used for in both medicine and magic.

He was working on his sketch of thecuach a mharawhen a tap at the window over the desk drew his attention. Outside the window was a large osprey. Alarmed, Bran opened the window. He couldn’t actually give Iolair permission to enter Jamie’sapartment—because it wasn’t his, even if he had permission from Jamie to stay here—but he could talk to his brother on the windowsill.

“What do you need, Iolair?” he asked. The osprey looked at him, then squawked. Even in bird form, Iolair sounded upset. Bran frowned. “There’s a courtyard behind the building. I’ll meet you under the tree.” Iolair let out another cry, then took off from the windowsill.

Jamie had made Bran his own set of keys yesterday, and Bran grabbed them after shifting his form, then pulled on shoes, one of Jamie’s heavy cardigan sweaters, and one of the half-dozen scarves that hung on the tree by the door. He could have easily spun himself a coat, but he preferred Jamie’s mortal clothes to those he spun using magic.

It was cold, and Bran huddled a little deeper into the scarf and sweater as he skirted the back of the building, heading for the courtyard he’d lived over—in the abandoned attic—before Jamie had invited him into his apartment and his life. Bran much preferred the way things were now. It had admittedly only been a handful of days, but the shortness of temper and irritability that had marred their relationship after only the first day following their threadbond hadn’t returned.

Instead, Bran spent his days helping Jamie with research and his nights learning every inch of Jamie’s body. Despite the seriousness of whatever had to have sent Iolair to Dunehame—since Bran knew his brotherhatedDunehame—Bran couldn’t help the smile that slid over his face as he thought about Jamie.

A gust of wind kicked up as Bran turned into the courtyard, and he shook his head to clear his hair from his face, not wanting to expose his hands to the winter air. Iolair was waiting for him, having spun himself an ankle length camel wool coat and heavy boots—and, presumably, other clothes that Bran couldn’t see—his speckled brown and white hair blowing in the same gusts toying with Bran’s. Iolair’s expression was serious and drawn.

“What happened?” Bran asked immediately, fear clenching in his gut. He may not beNeach-Cogaidhany longer—unlike his brother—but he still cared about what happened at the Court of Shades. Iolair’s expression made him fear that the Sluagh King had taken a turn for the worse.

“Father was attacked,” Iolair replied, his voice steady, although Bran could still hear the worry in it. It sent a chill through him that had nothing to do with the weather. “By thegeàrd soilleir.”

“What happened?” Bran kept the fear, the worry under control. He had to.

“Father was hit with an arrow while harvestingfeamainn ghropachanduilbheistbones.” Iolair’s face darkened. “The arrow was tipped with poison. Maigdeann believes it to be the same poison used on Cuileann mac Eug.”

---