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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Sirro reclined in his chair, one leg hitched over the other. He didn't offer answers or ask any questions, simply content at this point to let the meeting unfold before him without interference. His fingers were steepled, forefingers tapping against one another as he listened.
I felt his attention slithering over me like oil. I tasted his arrogance like a mouthful of rusty nails and his annoyance was almost tangible—he wanted to take a bite out of me, literally.
He didn't like me.
No surprise. Not too many people did.
Get in line, motherfucker.
He knew I hadn't saved him from the wraith-wolf. He was a Horned God. He'd been one breath away from snapping the beast's neck. He knew I'd done it for her. Sage's death would have broken Wychthorn. I didn't want her broken. Not yet. She was mine to shatter when I willed it.
No, this was all about Wychthorn and the Alverac.
He'd encountered someone he wanted and he couldn't have her.
She was mine.
Byron was waiting, shifting in his leather chair with impatience. I ran my tongue across my teeth, changing my angle just slightly to address him.
When I'd come across the wreck this afternoon, it was far too late to save them.
"They jammed the outside of the doors, poured wildfyre all over the truck, and burned it." I'd come across the remnants of the truck, just a shell of melted rubber and metal and bones. The residual emotion of those who'd died inside still coated the air around the burning husk. The thick tang of despair and terror had raked against my tongue, the scent choking up my lungs. I'd almost hurled my guts up. "They were caught in there. Burned alive." Men, women—some of them young.
The only reply from Byron was, "We need a replacement."
My jaw clenched. Not one single gesture showed he actually gave a fuck what happened to those innocent people.
And no reaction from any of the Heads either.
What was I expecting? That they'd show some kind of remorse? No, those people died in a fucking furnace, metal blistering and buckling, with no way out. Although, I reminded myself, if they'd survived, they still would have died at the hands of the Horned Gods, or worse, lived.
Sirro leaned forward, dropping one hand to the armrest of his chair. "Wildfyre, not gasoline?"
I gave a sharp nod. Gasoline would mean mortal interference. Wildfyre said something else altogether.
His golden eyes narrowed as he slightly tilted his head in contemplation.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my gaze snapping back to Byron. "My father's already got a new offering coming from the Widowmakers." The Widowmakers were an Albanian gang with territory covering the eastern seaboard. "It'll arrive a day late, but it'll arrive." My father had added foot soldiers from both our House and House Novak's to shadow the convoy for protection.
