Two girls. Two secrets.
Only one can survive.
Years before Nelle Wychthorn plans her escape, Tabitha Catt may unearth something in a Horned God's lair that is the key to freedom.
Desperate to save her beloved aunt from a dark curse, Tabitha is out t...
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I ran through the wild Hemmlok Forest. The gnarled trees were woven together with ivy, and thick black vines strangled the forest's upper reaches. Motes floated in the slender shafts of moonlight slicing through the leafy canopy above, which shifted and ruffled with a light breeze. Yet down here along the gloomy forest floor, the trees groaned and swayed and bent as if vicious storm winds blustered through them.
I was the storm.
I'd brought the storm with me.
Violent, black-tipped wind raked through my long hair and whipped slender branches to slap at my face as I burst through the ancient forest at a near-impossible speed. I bellowed and roared at the injustice of what was expected of me and my twin. What tore from my throat were more sounds than words, more animal than human. I was a blur of speed and wrath and pain as I charged through the forest, hacking through flailing branches with spinning blades in either hand—slicing through anything that was in my path. Spindly branches and draping ivy were cleaved in half and sent soaring as I ran on and on.
Earlier, I'd sought out Valarie as soon as I felt her misery vibrating through the twin-link.
My sister wouldn't come out of her room. She wouldn't answer my panicked knocks on the door that separated our two guest bedrooms. She'd refused to answer my demand to know what had happened, only choking out one name—Laurena.
And Byron, for the fucking life of me, actually presented himself. Soon after my sister had barricaded herself in her room, he'd inquired after her. He was polite in his request to speak with her, while I stood in the hallway in front of her guest bedroom, my arms crossed over my chest, my stance braced like a bouncer ready to kick his ass out of the club. Yet there'd been a frayed edge to Byron's demeanor. He'd stood there, his jaw sawing, and the veil came down just briefly for me to see the shot of anguish scoring through his gaze when I told him Valarie wasn't well enough to attend the dance. He'd been respectful of her decision to be left in peace, although his position in our life meant he very well could have ordered me to step aside and Valarie to show herself.
Instead, he inclined his head and left.
Valarie didn't need to beg me not to tell our father that she wasn't going to surface tonight and spend time with Byron. I'd known to keep her secret. Jeroen had already left several messages for me to get back to him. Which I did, as much as I fucking didn't want to.
I knew in my gut my sister would marry Byron Wychthorn if he chose her as his bride. Even with Laurena as a viperish sister-in-law, Valarie would go through with it to appease our father. But if my sensitive twin with the soul of an artist was forced to spend her days in the toxic Wychthorn household, she would wither away, her spirit crushed as easily as a new sapling beneath an inconsiderate heavy boot. She'd fade into a shadow of the living...or worse, become bitter and cruel.
Both of us were caught in an impossible situation—trading happiness for House advancement.
And so later this evening, I'd found myself standing next to Irma as we attended the Servants' Dance, awaiting the arrival of Sirro. The vibrant music and the flushed, smiling faces of those dancing, the laughter, and singing, were at complete odds with how I felt—the black crushing despair that swallowed me whole.
