Chapter 39 Latham/Westley
Latham had a moment to register before Solveig advanced, smashing her fist into his face. He buckled over in pain. Before he could recover, she hit him again with so much force she knocked him on his ass.
“Get up,” she growled.
He scrambled to his feet, glancing around. “Solveig, what the Hel?” He narrowly avoided another blow to his face but didn’t see the uppercut to his jaw quickly enough.
“You filthy traitorous piece of fucking vermin, you are a coward!” she roared.
His face flamed with heat. How dare she insult him in front of his subordinates had him drawing his sword.
Solveig growled and reached behind her, her stance widening.
Surprise lit him up, she came here for a fight. He smiled. “It’s about time you accepted my challenge, Sol.”
When she didn’t unsheathe her sword, doubt crept in, his steps faltering. Solveig was about to bring her hand forward when a body appeared, standing between them.
The prince towered over Solveig, trapping her wrist in a tight grip before she could throw the dagger she had pulled from its hiding spot. Latham’s mouth dropped open.
“What the Hel, Solveig?” he asked again, but no one answered.
Solveig and the prince were having an intense staring match, making Latham’s blood boil. The prince whispered something to Solveig, her eyes narrowing as she whispered back. She tried to wrench her wrist from him, but he held it in the air, his body visibly tensing at whatever she’d said.
Latham swore he saw a crackle in her eyes, but it was probably just a trick of the light.
When Solveig took a step away from the prince he followed her, still holding her wrist above their heads. He whispered something else, and Solveig rolled her eyes, her arm slackening. The prince finally let go and gave her another lingering look before turning to Latham.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it was not the prince’s fury.
“If you know what’s good for you, you will sheathe your sword,” the prince said slowly, every word ringing with authority.
Solveig didn’t stay behind the Fae but moved to stand at his side like they were some united front against him.
Latham didn’t know what to make of it, but his mouth tasted bitter.
“Getting others to fight your battles for you, Sol?” he sneered.
“I saved your life, Captain. Don’t make me regret it,” the prince retorted.
“He’s speaking for you too?” he said, ignoring the Fae entirely. Solveig bared her teeth and the viciousness in her face frightened him. He tried not to show it.
“Captain Arlanson, why don’t you take this opportunity to leave? Get your wounds taken care of,” the prince advised calmly. Latham bristled at the continued commands of the prince. He didn’t want to obey, lest he set a bad precedent.
Westley didn’t want to draw more of a scene. It was bad enough that Arlanson’s little band had witnessed the general’s outburst without the entire clan gathering around to see.
If he was honest with himself, she was a spectacular sight, even though it was completely reckless and would hurt her chances of maintaining her position. He was trying very hard to ignore the tightness in his pants after seeing her so beautifully vicious.
“I don’t take orders from Fae filth,” Latham spat, sword still drawn. The captain was walking on thin ice.
Westley didn’t think Latham grasped how much danger he was in. He could practically feel the general vibrating with rage beside him. He was about to speak again, but her quiet voice beat him to it.
“No, you don’t. But you will take orders from me. Leave right now, Latham, before I rip your serpent tongue out and shove it down your throat.” Her voice may have been low, but her sincerity was clear. A tingle ran down Westley’s spine.
Latham’s facade cracked, fear and anger deepening his already crimson face. “I won’t take orders from a crazed, unhinged female who attacked me for no reason,” he said loud enough for his companions to hear.
It was the wrong thing to say.
Westley and the general moved at the same time, but Westley was quicker.
The dagger she still held sliced through the air just as Westley grabbed her around the middle, throwing her over his shoulder, knocking her aim off balance. The dagger embedded itself in the wood behind Latham’s head instead of his throat, where it would’ve struck had her aim been true.
She was only stunned for a moment before she struggled against him.
He held her tightly. As much as he wanted to see her kill this slimy cockroach, it would not bode well for them in the long run. He’d moved on instinct to stop her, and now her body was pressed all over him, his magic roaring in his blood.
With the witch still draped over his shoulder, he glanced at Latham. The captain looked as bewildered as everyone else at the turn of events.
“If you ever speak to her or about her in that way again, I will tear your body into so many pieces there will be nothing left to burn. Your rotten soul will not even be fit for Helheim,” Westley whispered, a dangerous growl escaping his lips.
The blood completely drained from Latham’s face and the Vanir male said nothing.
Satisfied, Westley stalked away, taking the general with him. She hadn’t exactly relaxed into him, but she was no longer fighting, probably realizing she wouldn’t be able to break his hold.
“Put me down, Prince,” she demanded once they were far enough from the crowd.
Westley carried her away from the dining hall, towards the stables. There was a small forest behind the building, private enough that they’d be shielded from prying eyes.
“Not yet, General. I just need—” But he was cut off by a stabbing pain in his back.
He yelped and loosened his hold, giving her the opportunity to wrench herself off him. Misjudging the height, she lost her balance and ended up flat on her back.
Westley reached behind, wincing as pain lanced through his muscles. He pulled out the dagger embedded between his ribs, struggling to pull in a breath—she’d managed to puncture one of his lungs.
“You. Stabbed. Me,” he gasped, standing over her.
“You wouldn’t put me down,” she said, shrugging.
Westley groaned. “That hurt.”
“Good.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she scooted back and got to her feet.
He leaned forward to brace himself on his knees and his skin started to stitch itself together.
She watched him warily as he choked on his breath.
Organs took longer to heal than flesh wounds, especially without access to his magic.
Minutes ticked by like hours as his body slowly healed the would-be fatal wound.
The chirping of birds and distant horses neighing filled the silence.
“Aren’t you . . . going . . . to finish . . . the . . . job?” he wheezed between painful breaths.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Could have . . . fooled . . . me.”
The sound of her quiet chuckle had him hiding his smile. She watched in silence for the next half hour as his body slowly repaired itself.
A huge breath of relief filled his lungs when they finally healed and the sharp pain dwindled to a dull ache.
Without the pain to focus on, he registered her stance, standing a few feet away from him.
He took a step forward and she retreated a step back.
He didn’t want to admit how much he hated the action. She was scared of him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her.
“I stabbed you.”
“I’m aware.” She didn’t respond or relax her defensive position. “I’m still not going to hurt you,” he continued.
“Why not?” she asked casually, like they were discussing the weather.
“Because you stabbed me in retaliation for me grabbing you. In my mind, we’re even.”
Her eyes flashed. “We’re not even close to even.”
“You’re right.” He tried taking another tentative step closer to her, and this time she didn’t back away. “You owe me a thank you.”
“Excuse me?” she asked, standing straight and relaxing.
“You heard me. We aren’t even until you thank me.”
“And what, pray tell, am I thanking you for, Your Highness?” she said with mock civility.
“No need for such formalities, General. You can simply thank me for stopping you from making a huge mistake and killing Arlanson.”
“It wouldn’t have been a mistake. If anything, you owe me an apology for interfering with my business.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“And you will not be hearing an apology from my lips.” At the mention of those lips, Westley’s eyes dropped to her full mouth. He clenched his jaw to stop from saying something ill advised. When he returned his gaze to hers, she was smug, with one eyebrow raised.
“Care to elaborate on why I had to intervene in an attempted murder today?” he asked, changing the subject back to the matter at hand.
“No one asked you to do that.”
“That’s not true. Not that I needed him to, as I was already prepared to jump in, but Conalle whispered to me, ‘If you don’t stop her, I’ll slice off your penis in your sleep!
’ So you see, I really had no choice.” Her mouth twitched with the struggle to hold back a smile.
She lost the battle and burst out laughing.
“I can appreciate that you were under duress, but you still won’t get a thank you from me.”
“Fair enough. Now will you tell me why we want Arlanson dead?” The general sobered immediately.
Was it his use of the word we? It had just slipped out.
“Or at least elaborate on your very succinct whispered explanation of ‘his chauvinistic ass does not deserve to keep breathing,’” he said, referring to their heated conversation when he’d stepped in.
“Which, may I add, did not make sense in the slightest. As a person who very recently sustained a severe stab wound to the organ in charge of breathing, I feel confident in saying that no one breathes out their ass.”
“You haven’t spent much time with Latham, then,” she retorted, and he had to laugh at that.
“I’ve spent enough time with him that I can imagine. Now, given your use of the word chauvinist, I’m assuming he has made a grave error.” He chuckled at his own joke but she did not laugh.
“He demoted the females in leadership positions.”
Westley stared at her, stunned. “All of them?”
She nodded. “And as if that isn’t bad enough, he also demoted my shieldmaidens. Gerrie is the most skilled combat warrior I have ever fought with or against. She’s been in charge of training our soldiers for over a century. Her training is why the Southern Wilds is as feared as it is.”
Westley could practically see the rage lighting up within her as she glared at him.
“And he deserved my dagger to his eye. Since he clearly can’t see properly, he might as well have the injuries to show for it.” He caught the movement of her fingers twitching at her side and briefly wondered whether she was going to stab him again.
He was not a masochist, but his sanity may be in trouble because he didn’t entirely hate the idea of her coming at him with a blade again. He brought his hands up to cover his face.
“Not the face, please!” he said, shuddering dramatically.
She seemed like she was about to laugh again but stopped, as if catching herself. When she didn’t reply to his joke, he lowered his hands and frowned at her serious expression.
“It was a joke, General. I know you’d never strike my pretty face,” he said, attempting to draw a smile from her, but she kept her expression neutral, emotions locked down.
“I need to get back. I have to speak with Gerrie and Jarl Bjornson.” She was about to leave but paused and then stalked straight up to him.
The air crackled between their close bodies.
Keeping her voice low, she hissed, “If you ever put your hands on me again, you won’t survive long enough for your body to heal itself. ”
“I’m starting to love it when you whisper sweet nothings of death threats in my ear, General.”
Solveig didn’t make eye contact with him as she headed in the direction of camp.
“Better keep that temper in check. I might not be there to stop you next time you make a rash decision,” he called after her.
The sight of her middle finger and low chuckle sent a shudder through his body as she walked away.