CAGED (#3, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 114

I threw myself at my father, meeting warmth and strength and safety as his arms wrapped around me in a hug, swinging me up off the ground and around, my tulle skirt soaring wide. "Nelle," he rasped hoarsely, pressing his chin into the crook of my neck as I did with him, his salt and peppered hair tickling the side of my face. He lowered me carefully back to my feet and we stood there, holding onto one another, not speaking just hugging. My soul sighed in contentment to be back in my father's arms. I pressed my face into his chest, listening to the rhythmic thud, thud, thud, of his heart, and the tears started. I couldn't stop the wail of wretched joy from erupting from my throat. Tears tingled my nose and burned my eyes as they flowed ceaselessly down my cheeks to dampen the fine woolen blend of his suit. He tightened his arms around me and rested the side of his face upon the crown of my head. Rocking me, he made soothing sounds just as he used to do when I was a child and upset, my body shuddering as I wept.

Eventually, the tears and hiccups subsided, and he pried us apart. His large warm hands cupped my wet cheeks gently. "Are you okay?" he asked, brushing away the plump droplets with a sweep of his thumbs.

I nodded jerkily, sniffling.

Anguish slashed his eyebrows upward and quivered his chin. "I thought you'd died. I thought they'd killed you."

"It was me, all me." I hiccuped noisily with fresh tears. Wetness slid against my fingertips as I swiped away the teardrops. "I will never bow to a Crowther."

Pride sparkled in his blue eyes, and awe. "Gods, you and your wild temper," he replied with a bright, watery smile.

A laugh spluttered from me. The ridiculousness of it all, how I'd gone about breaking Jett, trapping his hands with the noose cinched around my very own neck.

A second touch, tentative, on the side of my head, caused me to swing my gaze sideways. My mother crowded up beside us. A cold, frail hand touched my puffy hair hesitantly, before gliding down to my shoulders to rest on the curve of my upper arm. "Oh, Nelle, my sweet child. I've worried so much about you." Her gaze cut to my father, torment ravaging her tear-blotched face as she dabbed at her wet eyes with a handkerchief. "I hate this, Byron. I hate it!"

His gaze hardened. "You gave them Brangwene's Hjarte, Marissa."

"Someone had to," she bit back with more life in her than I'd ever seen in over a decade. Accusation leaked throughout her tone, but I was on my father's side. Though we'd been extended an olive branch from the Crowthers with a replica to fool the Horned Gods, now that they possessed the Hjarte, the Crowthers had ensured they would still hold power and authority over my father after my demise at the Witches Ball.

My mother sniffed, then tucked her handkerchief under the cuff of her sleeve, adding airily, "They gave us an imitation."

"Which we weren't expecting," he shot back. His hands fell away from my face when he turned toward my mother. Anger flickered across his stern features. "And we still won't know if it will pass scrutiny."