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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Yes, in our sinister world, especially within the upper ranks, daughters were possessions to be used for their House's advantage. But there was no way my family would cage Ferne the same way my little bird had been by her own father. Sure, my brothers and I were overprotective, but Ferne wasn't a thing, a piece of property. Ferne was an independent soul—sharp and cunning and full of life. We'd never stifle it. She might very well be chosen as the heir to House Crowther. Unlike the rest of the Houses, our heirs were chosen on merit, not because they'd been born first.
I rolled my jacket up in my hands, finding it safer to look at than Wychthorn when I spoke. "There's a wider world out there, even within the Houses. Women aren't always chattel. They rule too. Houses Estlore and Qillisan and Văduva—all headed by women." All Lower Houses, too, but I didn't say that out loud.
"Not us," she said with a shrug. She gave me a wide, wary berth as she skirted past, disappearing into her walk-in closet. "My father's heir won't be Annalise or Evelene or even me. It'll be the first male baby born to either of my sisters. Her husband will rule Great House as Regent until the child comes of age." I heard the noise of rattling hangers pause. She stepped back into her bedroom holding the usual attire: an oversized dress shirt, this time in a pale blue. She flicked it over a shoulder, obviously intending to get dressed a little later.
Shock and a little disbelief washed over her. "Is that it? The reason why I was chosen for the Alverac. Someone easy to dominate?"
A soft chuckle rasped from my throat. Who the hells did Wychthorn see herself as? "If we wanted someone easy to dominate we would have picked either of your two sisters. Not you, little bird."
She tilted her head on her side, staring at me long and hard, a ghost of a smile tickling her lips. I started feeling uncomfortable. I gave her a look—What?
Her pale brows rounded. "A compliment? Was that a...compliment, Graysen Crowther?"
I rolled my eyes, "Gods, Wychthorn, don't let it go to your head."
She grinned. "I think I will. I think my head's swelling so big you won't be able to tug me out my bedroom door. Imagine, the sullen and brooding Graysen Crowther giving me a compliment."
I huffed a laugh and hers joined mine.
But then the mischief in her eyes died. There was something uneasy in her gaze as it landed on me. "Crowther."
Fuck, we were back to that again.
She nervously shifted her weight, her fingers combing through the messy tangled locks of her hair. Buttery sunlight poured through the window, gilding her in gold and shining through that flimsy nightie so her figure was apparent.
Sleeveless nightie, low neckline, the hem skirting mid-thigh. Panties—dammit.
"What I said..." she began, letting the words drift apart.
