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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I'd felt the winding of wicked power ensnaring my legs far too late to save myself from tripping face-first into a pool of mud—thank you very much, Wychthorn.
My brothers waited inside my quarters while I showered off the sludge. Changing into a fresh tuxedo, I roughly dried my hair with a towel while entering the guest bedroom and its living space. Jett moped around with his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, finding displeasure in everything, even the Klimt painting. As usual, my youngest brother was typically dressed in an over-the-top style. The silver tuxedo's fabric shimmered with his moody movements.
Folding the damp towel up neatly, I hung it over the back of a chair near where Caidan stood with his back to us. He stared through the window at the gardens lit up with wildfyre torches and watched House Zielenski, who oversaw our brothels, entering the arched entrance to the marquee. Caidan had been on edge since he'd arrived at the Wychthorn estate. His normally easy-going smiles were few and far between. Something was on his mind, but I didn't have the headspace to give it room.
I tugged my shirt sleeves down over my wrists and twisted the gold cufflinks into place, before shrugging on the navy jacket of the spare tux I'd brought with me—thank fuck. Giving it some thought—how the day was obviously heading between Wychthorn and myself—I strode over to the bedside table and grabbed my phone, sending a quick text to Ferne. My sister wouldn't have left our family estate just yet so she'd be able to bring me some spare tuxes, just in case.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I strolled to a mirror hanging on the wall while running my fingers through my damp hair, tousling the wavy locks. Kenton handed me a new tie—my brothers and I didn't do bow ties—looking like penguins, no thank you. Wrestling with the damn tie, I struggled to knot the fucking thing while cursing beneath my breath. None of us were any good at this. Ferne always fixed our ties for us.
Kenton was built like a rugby player and dressed in a classic three-piece tuxedo. He was born an old soul, more like our aunt—ice-cold, quiet, and wholly fixated on vengeance. Jett and he were deceptively alike, though Jett hid it by being loud and obnoxious.
Kenton poured a drink for me. His sharp eyes met mine in the mirror as his deep bass voice rumbled, "One month, Gray, before the Alverac puts her in our hands."
I returned a dark look. As if I need fucking reminding.
About to take the whiskey Kenton offered, my outstretched hand stilled when I caught Jett's reflection in the mirror. My youngest brother lurked at the adjoining door between Wychthorn's room and my own, fiddling with the brass-plated door handle. "It's locked," he scowled.
After what I'd done to Wychthorn last night, she had every reason to lock me out. There was probably a fucking armoire shoved up against it as well. But I didn't say that either.
There was something slender in Jett's hand and I realized too late what it was—a Shadow Key. We, Crowthers, were thieves after all, and a locked door was nothing to us. Within a second, Jett had picked the lock and pushed open the door.
