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'
***
Fiery Nelle, the isolat...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Graysen whipped his hand out and fisted my hair right at the back of my head.
I yelped in surprise, my hands frantically clawing at his. A burning sting flared across my scalp as he shook my head just hard enough that my eyes bit with heat. "Don't you ever fucking dare pull that shit on me again!" I knew what he was bellowing about. Not my wicked tongue, but because I'd deceived him in my quest to seek out the Uzrek.
He arched my head back. Forcing my spine to bow. Forcing me to stare into his harsh gaze. My fingers wrapped around his forearms to steady myself. "I needed to know," I rasped. "You wouldn't have taken me."
"No. I fucking wouldn't," he snarled. "I'm going to slap your ass pink, then red, then paint it blue-black. What the fuck were you thinking going in there...to find the Uzrek? Do you know what that beast could have done to you?"
"I think the Uzrek should have been more afraid of me," I gasped out.
His whole body jerked as if I'd physically hit him, then he blinked and slowly nodded in agreement, but he didn't loosen his fist.
It suddenly dawned on me that his anger wasn't about my seeking the Uzrek at all. This was about him. The shock of realizing his truth was kindling bursting into flame, licking every nerve, burning oxygen from my lungs.
In that cavern buried below Ascendria, when I'd been captured by a net, there was only one person I'd heard in the pitch-black darkness. All of my senses had been honed on him. The slash of his daggers, deep grunts, the sharp intake of wounded breath. He'd fought furiously, fast, and hard. He had to be swifter than the wind, battling his way to me.
And it was my name he roared, Nelle, again and again and again.
Graysen Crowther cared!
And this was just his jerkass way of saying it, because he wouldn't or couldn't, admit it.
My fingers inched up his arms to his shoulders, traveling up his throat, before threading through his thick, unruly hair. He breathed harder and his nostrils flared as confusion entered his gaze. "It's okay, Graysen...I know..."
"What do you think you know?" Threat laced his words, emphasized with a tighter hold on my hair.
"You care—"
"I don't care," he snarled. But I caught it. I saw it. The truth he was trying to avoid. He'd been afraid for me.
"You care," I whispered back softly. And then I fisted his hair. Harder. Sharper. Surprise flared through inky black eyes; the pain fierce enough to make him gasp. I bowed his head toward my own while I rose up on tippy-toes. My words brushed against his lips. "It's okay."
"I. Don't. Care," he bit out savagely.
I wondered if my lies tasted sweet like honey, what his lies tasted like on his tongue.
