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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Sage reacted first. His large ears pricked forward as he cocked his head listening.
The creature inside me uncoiled...then paused, still as death.
And all the fine hair on my body rose.
I shot to my feet, my heart in my throat.
Graysen followed suit, standing beside me a blink later. "What is it?"
Get rid of the alcohol in my blood, now!—I inwardly hissed. The power inside me obeyed, burning through the alcohol, and I instantly sobered.
"Little bird?" Graysen frowned, with urgency to his tone. Every inch of his tall, formidable figure was on edge and alert. One of his hands hovered near the pocket of his pants where I was sure he'd stashed a blade.
Terror squeezed my chest.
A Horned God.
I felt him coming well before the smoky doors to our room opened. It was the distant rumble of thunder rippling over clouds swollen with moisture—immense power—a strumming sensation pulsing in time with footsteps drawing nearer. The lighting in the room flickered, an almost imperceptible shimmer to the golden light spilling down from the chandelier.
The creature slithered, raking along my bones, recognizing what was coming—likeness singing to one another.
I practically shrieked—Hide! Hide! Hide!
It roiled and roared—NO!
NOW! Do it now before we're discovered!
Snarling with displeasure, it withdrew, coiling like a snake in the pit of my stomach bringing up a shield of magic to cloak itself.
"Shit," Graysen hissed. His gaze had arrowed straight to the smoky doors just before they swung open and a man stepped into the room.
It stole my breath, the power radiating from him, encased in a tall, lean figure wrapped up in an exquisite bespoke pin-striped suit. Italian leather shoes. Debonair tie.
Beautiful.
A silvery light shimmered around his rich brown skin as if he was blessed. And he was. But not by a glorious, benevolent god. He was kissed by darkness. By the shadowed world.
Master Sirro.
He was a Horned God and my father's superior. This was the chain of command that linked our servitude to the echelon we served.
Every single person lowered themselves with a graceful sweep to one knee. Everyone but the Wychthorns. We stood aloft in a sea of bended knees. Of reverently bowed heads.
If Master Sirro didn't terrify me, I would have enjoyed seeing Graysen kneeling beside me in a reminder of his placement within the Houses. He might lord over me with our impending marriage, but right this moment, he was nothing. It grated on him. I could feel him seething that I should see him like this.
