Chapter 32 Westley/Solveig
Ashiver of awareness ran through Westley the next morning, jolting him awake, his magic alerting him to nearby danger. He hadn’t slept well, and it took him a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes before he heard voices approaching.
“I swear to the gods, Conalle, if you ever wake me at the ass crack of dawn again, you’ll suffer a fate worse than death,” a very grumpy female’s voice said, the sound coming closer to the entrance of his tent. Westley shivered again.
“Don’t worry, Sol, after you nearly beheaded me this morning, I think it’s safe to say I won’t be doing that again.” He chuckled. “We both know your threats are empty, though. You love me too much to hurt me too badly.”
“Not after this morning. Who wakes up a general with the point of their sword if they have no ill intent?”
“A smart one. Lucky I had that sword too.”
“It’s because you had that sword that I threw the dagger, you big oaf.”
“Who sleeps with multiple daggers in their bed? I thought I was safe after I grabbed the one peeking out from the pillow.” Silence followed and Westley smirked. A decoy knife—smart. Conalle sighed. “Well, I’ve learned my lesson. How do you suggest we rouse the prince?”
“I have no desire to wake him,” she said coldly. “This was your plan.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to tempt fate twice. You’re a war general and he’s a war prince. I do not like my odds of escaping without being wounded this morning.”
“I say we just barge in there. It’s not fair he’s being spared because you’ve decided to have some common sense.”
Before Westley could process her words and before Conalle could stop her, she let herself into his tent. She stopped short when she saw him sitting up, already awake.
Westley fought a smirk. He bet it took a lot to surprise her.
Her wide eyes took in his bare chest, the scars and black ink that wove together, runes and ancient words telling the stories of centuries of battle and loss.
He saw the flash of recognition in her eyes as she realized the ink formed the shape of a wolf.
His skin burned where her gaze touched him, but he did not move.
When she was done perusing his upper body, their eyes locked for the first time.
He thought she flinched, but the expression was gone before he could be sure.
His magic urged him to reach forward and wrap his hands around her throat, to squeeze, and bring her closer, to feel her body against his, the softness of her skin against his hard .
. . Wait. No. She was a threat—dangerous. He faked a scowl.
“Are you done staring?” he asked.
That broke her trance. She grimaced right back. Conalle stood just a few steps behind her, amusement etched onto his features. When he met Westley’s glare, his face broke into a wide grin, eyes knowing.
“Good, you’re already awake. My head is safe.”
“For now,” Solveig muttered. Her next words were directed at him. “Put a shirt on. We have business.”
“I’ll also need pants unless you’d like to stare at the bottom half of me as well.”
She blinked at him. “If you want to parade around completely naked, be my guest. I care not.”
She obviously cared. She cared, right? Why do I care if she cared? This female had spoken twenty-two words to him and already he was addled.
“Are you going to stand there and watch me dress?” he asked her when she still hadn’t moved.
“Do you want me to?” she deadpanned.
Yes. No. Definitely not. But before he could answer, she left him alone with his muddled thoughts and overactive imagination.
“I’m really glad you were already awake. She tried to kill me this morning!” Conalle actually looked a little frightened at the memory.
“It was difficult to sleep with all that racket.” Conalle furrowed his brows in confusion.
“Fae hearing. Connie, you are a Fae.” Westley rolled his eyes and gestured to his own pointed ears as he stood.
He’d only been goading her—he was wearing pants, but still, he needed to change into sturdier ones that weren’t so . . . revealing. Conalle snickered again.
“Well, good morning to you too,” he said pointedly.
“Get out.”
Chuckling to himself, Conalle let himself out of the tent. Westley could still hear him as he spoke to Solveig.
“That went well.” No response. “No one threw any weapons, so it’s a win in my book.
” A thud and a curse from Conalle. “What was that for? Oh, don’t give me that look.
” She must’ve made a face at him. Silence.
“Just so you know, he was wearing pants, but it hardly mattered with how little they left to the imagination.” Still no response.
It was comical that they were able to have a full conversation with only one of them speaking. “I think even you would be impressed.” Westley could imagine the face he was making.
He quickly dressed in thicker pants and a loose black tunic. He put on the vest he’d worn yesterday. Most of the blood had come out of it. Looping his knives and bow around his chest and back, he joined them.
“You know I can still hear you, right?” he asked. “What is this about?”
“You two haven’t formally met.”
“I know who he is,” Solveig said at the same time Westley replied, “She’s the general.”
“Yes and no,” Conalle replied to both of them.
“Still, introductions are in order.” He cleared his throat and with formality declared, “His Royal Highness, Westley Erikson, third in line to the crown of Idavoll, War Prince of the Riddari. Your Highness, this is the illustrious General Solveig Tordottir, daughter of the Queens of Asgard, General of Asgard, leader of the Southern Wilds Legion.”
Neither spoke to the other. Slowly, Westley reached his hand out to her. She glanced at it before looking back up at him. She gave a slight nod.
Conalle must have been satisfied because he clapped his hands together. “Now that introductions are over, let’s be off.”
Westley dropped his outstretched hand, falling into step behind them.
“You still haven’t told me what business we have,” he said. Solveig ignored him but Conalle turned.
“We’re headed out on a ride for a little more privacy.”
The general led them around the outskirts of camp where they passed only guards. She acknowledged each of them and they bowed in return. They paid Westley no mind.
The witch in front of him moved with more grace than he thought possible of her kind. If it weren’t for her rounded ears, he would’ve thought she was Fae. He studied her intently, unsure of how to handle the situation.
She didn’t seem to like him, and that was just fine with him.
Solveig felt the eyes of the prince on her but continued to ignore him. Outwardly, at least.
Inwardly she was aware of his every movement. She wished to stay away from him as much as possible, he was the fucking prince of Idavoll, but with Conalle’s plan—and she had to admit it was a good plan—they would have to remain close.
When they reached the stables, Solveig strode straight for Helle. Her hand trembled as she reached out to her horse, hoping no one noticed. Helle came to her immediately and offered her surety.
The black horse also poked his nose out of his stall and Solveig reached out to him instinctively.
“Be careful!” the prince exclaimed. He rushed forward, but Solveig reached the horse first. She glared at him as the horse nuzzled into her. The prince stopped his approach, dark brows furrowing. “He usually doesn’t like strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger.”
He appeared confused but Solveig didn’t care to elaborate. Helle snorted, pulling her attention back to her.
They readied their horses and led them out of the stables.
The sun was still low in the sky, the birds only starting to wake, and Solveig swiftly mounted Helle.
The males were still leading their own horses which made Solveig’s fingers tap the reins impatiently.
Once they were seated, Solveig pointedly did not look at the prince’s strong legs around his horse.
Okay, maybe just a small peek. Then they were off.
Solveig raced through the woods towards the river. The storms had washed the forest of mud and grime, leaving the world clean and new. The lingering smell of rain in the air was more potent this morning as the trees still dripped with fresh water, sprinkling them with cleansing drops as they rode.
She pushed Helle faster, listening to the hooves of the prince’s horse keeping step with her, Conalle trailing farther behind. She should’ve slowed down so the lord could follow, but she didn’t.
Helle could sense her rising terror and allowed Solveig to push and push.
They were both out of breath when they reached the rocky beach of the riverbank. Memories flashed through Solveig’s mind as she recalled the last time she’d seen this place. She closed her eyes and pictured herself crawling to the water. Feeling the strength of the warm arms that rescued her.
But the memory of those warm arms was tainted now.
She only had a moment to herself before the prince burst through the treeline to meet her. He was also breathing heavily as he got his bearings.
“This is farther from your camp than I expected,” he said, catching his breath. It wasn’t a question, so Solveig didn’t answer.
She jumped down from Helle and strode to the edge of the river. Scooping the water with her hands, she took a steadying breath, the ice-cold temperature soothing her soul. Helle meandered away grazing the water plants that washed up on the rocky shore. The prince dismounted and followed suit.
He winced as he dipped his hand in for a drink.
“That’s bloody freezing,” he said after taking a mouthful.
“We’re closer to the fjords here, even though we’re farther south. There’s a glacier between those two mountains.” She gestured to the far side of the river. His horse sauntered towards her, and she brushed her hand along his silky black coat as he bent his neck to take a drink.
“What’s his name?”
“Njord. What’s hers?” the prince said, nodding to her horse.
“Helle.”
He snorted. “Figures.”
Solveig’s head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“She tried to bite me yesterday.”
It was difficult to keep the smile off her face when she imagined the scene, but she managed. “Yes, she does that to those she doesn’t trust. She’s an excellent judge of character.”
“Njord is typically the same way, although he seems to have had a lapse in judgement where you’re concerned.” He observed her as she continued to circle Njord, stroking and whispering to him.
Solveig didn’t know what to think of the prince. He was different from what she expected, never having met any of the Idavoll heirs. Though he was the war prince of the Riddari and she had expected him to be more . . . disagreeable.
Conalle came into view and dramatically dropped from his horse to lie flat on the ground, chest heaving. Solveig smiled at her friend the way one would a small child. She noted the prince raising his brows from her peripheral.
He was wary of her, rightly so. It was a mutual feeling then. Her magic was going haywire under her skin, matching the ice-cold temperature of the river. She didn’t know his motives for being here and could take nothing he said at face value.
Asgard may think they have a relationship with Idavoll, but she no longer held the same level of trust.
Regardless of whatever bullshit came out of the prince’s mouth, she would never let her guard down. Especially when his hand accidentally brushed hers as they made their way over to Conalle and a charge of energy ran up the entire length of her arm.
She could not let him distract her.