When Nelle Wychthorn was forced to sign herself away in marriage, she should have read the contract's fine print. Because she signs not with ink, but with blood. And that changes everything.
Season 1 'Of Crows and Thorns'
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Fiery Nelle, the isolat...
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Gods, would Carola Pelan just shut the fuck up? Her fake tan seared my nostrils and her whiny, tinny voice was pissing me off. I didn't care to hear about her boring trip to Paris.
This had been one of my more stupider ideas. I'd just wanted a rise out of Wychthorn and toss a little fuck-you Byron's way.
Carola was attractive, but I saw through the glamour she'd weaved about herself that sharpened her cheekbones, doused most of her freckles, made her lips fuller, and brightened her eyes. There was no way that I was going to fuck her. Didn't she get that? She was a Pelan. I hated Pelans. I hated being here surrounded by them. They made my skin crawl. And there was one Pelan that was missing tonight. One I wanted to crush with my bare hands, grind his bones to dust, and even then that wouldn't satisfy me.
I ignored Carola, brushed aside her creepy hands that kept touching me, and kept my guard up. I'd kept to my side of the room, as requested so politely by Wychthorn, but I couldn't stop myself from sneaking glances her way.
Wychthorn liked to mess with me every chance she got. Last time she'd hidden a tack in the cushion of my dining chair. And just to spite her, I left her bereft of the reaction she hungered for, enduring the spike of pain the entire time I sat at the table, pretending the fucking tack wasn't buried in my left ass cheek.
What can it be?
What has she done?
I eyed my drink suspiciously... Where I stood... The low-running table filled with platters of food... Where did she expect me to sit? Had she anticipated it?
I ran a hand through my hair, tugging hard. Shit, I was fucking paranoid around this girl. Taking a long pull of whiskey, I watched Little Miss Annoying over the rim of the glass. She stood on the outskirts of the party near an imperious-looking rattan chair with a dusty, old book tucked under her arm. She toyed with the ends of her braid with her free hand, while smiling a crooked grin at her sister.
Evvie crouched down beside Sage. The wraith-wolf leaned in, huffing in pleasure, his tail thumping on the floor as she scratched behind his ears. With my keen hearing, I overheard her offer the beast: "How would you like a treat?" She rose, and with a click of her tongue, the wraith-wolf happily followed her as she strolled from the room.
Wychthorn slowly turned my way, purposely, not inadvertently drawn by whatever it fucking was that cursed us both. Her attention was fixed on me as sharp as a blade. Amusement shone in her gray eyes and her lips twitched as if she were stifling a smirk.
Dread coiled inside me.
I felt like a mouse being taunted by the cat.
What the fuck did she do?
What the fuck did I just walk into?
She wasn't the cat, I was.
She was my thing to toy with, play with, and defile if I wanted.
