Chapter 46
The screams still rang in Westley’s ears as he walked away from the Vanir soldier. He’d tried to make the punishment quick, but his efforts had been futile. The poison that coated the blade was not meant to kill, as he quickly discovered.
However, his relief was short-lived as the skin around the cuts began to sizzle and burn. The smell was horrendous, and he made a mental note to sincerely thank the general for stepping in during the challenge.
Five cuts did not sound like many, but he had to dole them out slowly, so slowly it felt like an hour before he was finished. Solveig did not return.
Solveig.
Just thinking her name sent shivers down his spine, his magic reacting to the very thought of her. The terror in her eyes had been so potent. He acted before thinking, stepping forward to help her in any way he could. But the damage was done.
When she’d disappeared from view, his attention went to Latham and Maddock. They were whispering while watching her walk away, and the Jotunheim commander wore the most disgustingly gleeful look on his face.
Goddess, he’d thought. He couldn’t believe Maddock of all people was here. Luckily it seemed his general shared his feelings about the Giant, so it would be easy to keep them apart.
“So . . .” Noren came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder as they walked.
“So what?”
“Are we going to talk about what happened back there?” He nodded to where Leif was being dragged off. They’d called for Laeknir after the first cut, but the healer couldn’t be found.
“Nothing to talk about,” Westley replied gruffly.
“Sure, sure. A gallant white knight coming to save the damsel in distress. No big deal.”
“I am not a white knight, and the general is not a damsel.”
Noren gave him a knowing look. “That’s not how it appeared to me.”
“You think it was a romantic gesture?” Westley asked, trying to sound unconcerned, joking even, but not quite hitting the mark.
“I think the general couldn’t perform her duty. You saved her and she let you.” Damn it. “You know our orders—we’re here to be impartial and gather as much information as we can. You’re anything but impartial.”
Westley rubbed a hand over his face. “I couldn’t stand there and do nothing—”
“I know,” Noren said, interrupting him. “I know, West. But you should have.”
There hadn’t been a time in his life where he fought so hard against what was expected of him. Then again, there hadn’t been a reason to fight against it until now. The general was messing with more than just his magic—his mind was a storm and he was caught in the middle.
What was it about her that made him forget his duty?
If he was being honest though, it wasn’t just about her. Living with the Vanir legion, working with them instead of facing them on the battlefield was a completely different experience than what he’d been expecting.
Sure, the Vanir were rougher around the edges and they enjoyed their violent punishments, but as a people? Much less barbaric than what he’d been taught to believe. He shouldn’t have been so foolish as to judge an entire race on how they acted in war.
And seeing how Solveig had trained them and taken care of them?
The storm in his mind raged against the foundation of his upbringing.
Who was he to say he was better than these people?
What made the gods choose Idavoll over all the realms?
Nausea was a constant companion as he walked through the camp, the sick feeling in his stomach churning with something he’d rather not name.
They were almost to the dining hall, ready for a late lunch, when Westley spoke again.
“I don’t know how I’m going to fix—” He was cut off by footsteps quickly approaching from behind.
“Prince of Idavoll,” Solveig said loudly enough for the people around to hear. Westley braced himself. “That is the second time you have interfered with my business. I warned you after the first that I would not tolerate it again.”
“Are you here to challenge me?” he asked, drawing up to full height. She did not back down. He never thought she would.
“You don’t deserve the right to be challenged by me,” she stated, then swiftly cocked her arm back. Before he could move to protect himself, she punched him in the face.
Gasps echoed around them as Solveig got into position to throw a second punch. This time instead of ducking, he grabbed her wrist in mid-air and yanked her close. His skin burned where he touched her, and her sharp intake of breath told him she felt it too.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
She didn’t answer, shoving him off, before coming at him again, this time manoeuvring to get behind him with a twist of his arm. He’d been so surprised by her speed he hadn’t bothered to resist.
Plus, he could feel the length of her body against his back as she leaned in and it was not unpleasurable.
“Just go with it, Prince. I’m trying to prove a point,” she whispered back. He broke free of her hold easily. They jabbed and dodged in a swift hand-to-hand combat style, the kind soldiers used in battle when their weapons had been knocked to the ground.
It was ruthless and wild.
More people gathered, cheering and placing bets. Westley had assumed Solveig was best with a sword—given that her race was smaller and less agile than the Fae, she’d need the benefit of a weapon to keep up with him. He was wrong.
Even on the receiving end of her fighting style, he was blown away by her strength and speed. She was beautifully savage, nothing short of incredible.
As they fought, a hush settled over the crowd. Their eyes were trained on Solveig, and realization dawned that she rarely fought in front of her people. She preferred to train privately, and when she was instructing, her movements were slow and controlled.
But as she’d said, she was trying to prove a point. She was strong. Strong enough to land blows and keep up with a Fae. And not just any Fae—the war prince of the Riddari, Aegir himself.
He was behind her now, holding her tight to him, and he tried not to think about each point where their bodies connected. Tried and failed.
“You’re holding back, Prince,” she whispered. Did he imagine the way she arched into him?
“Careful what you wish for, General.” He tightened his hold so it was less like an embrace and more like a painful trap.
She chuckled, the sound making him loosen his grip for a fraction of a second. One second was all she needed to get out of his grasp. She whirled around again and took him to the ground in a swift movement involving her legs.
The force of the fall stole his breath and then she was on top of him, knee on his throat.
His hands were still free, though, so he grabbed her by the thighs, her breath hitching as he spun her onto her back, holding her arms above her head with one hand and grabbing her throat with the other.
His body pressed into her in the most interesting ways, pinning her to the ground with his weight.
“Not the way I imagined you on your back underneath me for the first time,” he whispered, his breath caressing the hollow of her neck. He watched in fascination as her skin pebbled, proving she was more affected by him than she let on. Her answering smirk made his heart leap.
“Been fantasizing about me, I see?” Once again, she made use of his pause to wrap her legs around his waist.
He was shocked by the manoeuvre, his dick doing the thinking for him—imagining a completely different scenario than the one they were in.
Her eyes glittered like she knew exactly where his thoughts had gone, and he could’ve sworn she pressed into his hardening cock, before she forced him onto his stomach.
Using the momentum, she untangled her legs and brought herself onto his back. She twisted his arm to the point of pain and her knee dug into his neck, pushing his body and face into the ground.
This was an uncomfortable position no matter what, but the hardness in his pants made it all the more unpleasant to be pressed into the gravel. Try as he might, he couldn’t move without his body screaming in pain.
She’d won.
He wasn’t going to injure himself like he would in a real battle to the death. He’d have dislocated his shoulder to get out of the hold, but she’d pinned him, fair and square. She still didn’t let him up, her breathing heavy.
“Next time you interrupt my business, Your Highness, remember how easily I bested you,” she said loud enough for the spectators to hear.
She waited another beat before releasing him and standing up.
Westley twisted onto his back, letting his breathing slow and the pain in his shoulders subside.
He was pretty sure she’d torn something, and it was just as painful stitching itself together.
Thick clouds gathered behind her, a swirl of grey and white, as she stood over top of him.
The wind blew her hair across her face, and gods, she was breathtaking.
Westley had been surrounded by beautiful Fae his entire life. And when beauty was a given, expected, it stopped being special. A female was a female, no matter what she looked like.
But the first time he’d seen Solveig, his heart had leapt out of his chest. He’d had no idea who she was and at first, he’d mistaken her for Fae.
He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.
Her fierceness had stunned him into silence and, for the first time in a long time, he had recognized beauty in its truest form.
In her, the most beautiful female he’d ever laid eyes on.
She stared him down, towering over him, with that same fierceness in her eye—a spark of excitement—reminding him of that night before the bloodshed began.
He shook the thoughts from his head and was about to get up when her hand appeared before him. It was scarred and calloused, faint bruises blooming on the knuckles, the pale skin weathered but outstretched gracefully towards him, strong and sure.
His eyes trailed from her hand up her arm and right into the beautiful face and eyes that haunted his dreams. Surprise, or maybe awe, must have been written all over his face because she rolled her eyes.
That small gesture snapped him out of his haze, and he grasped her hand, wincing as he stood. He was still not used to the shock that passed through them whenever they touched. His skin tingled from all the times they’d come into contact during the fight.
Solveig helped him to his feet, flinching softly as she did so.
His instincts roared at him to find the pain and attend to her, but he caught himself before he did something stupid.
Like scoop her into his arms and fuss over every wound.
She was showing off her strength—pointing out her injuries would not be helpful.
This witch was going to be the death of him.
They realized at the same time that they were still holding hands, and she stepped away first. Westley bristled at her absence and craved to reach out to her again, having to curl his hand into a fist to stop himself. He wanted to feel more of her skin. All of it.
But that thought was pointless—he would never touch her like that. He couldn’t.
She opened her mouth to say something when Quillon came over to greet them.
“Well fought, my friends! Well fought indeed!” He clapped his hands together, sharing a meaningful look with Solveig.
“Thank you, Jarl Bjornson,” Solveig said with a slight bow of her head.
“I don’t think we’ve seen such a skilled pair since . . . well, since never!”
“You flatter us, Quillon,” she said, but Westley’s mind had snagged on the word us. “Surely when Gerrie and I spar we are equally as skillful.”
Quillon tried and failed to hide his answering smile. “With all due respect, General Tordottir, Gerrie is much more skilled than you. When you two fight, it is not an equal match.” Solveig put a hand to her chest, pretend shock on her face.
“Jarl Bjornson, you wound me!”
The clan leader chuckled in return and Solveig beamed at him. Westley watched the exchange with fascination. He’d never seen Solveig’s playful side like this. He may have caught glimpses of it now and again but never without restraint.
His amusement vanished as he wondered if this was how she’d been before her capture. His thoughts festered, churning his insides with every second he dwelled on it. He was tempting the gods, begging for disaster, by sticking around.
“Well fought, General. If you’ll excuse me.” The two glanced up in confusion at his sudden dismissal, and he withdrew quickly before either could object.
He could not let her see the rage building inside him at what was done to her. When he heard the stories, rumours spoken in hushed tones about what she’d endured, he tried to remain impartial. Not that the Vanir knew what had happened—it didn’t sound like Solveig opened up to many about it.
But the whispers circulated nonetheless, her haunted eyes confirming them.
With each step away from her, his resolve to complete his mission and get home grew.
His parents, the king and queen of his realm, were counting on him.
Their people suffered. Magic had been what kept their lands fruitful and hospitable.
But without it, brutal winters scourged the forest, leaving them in a constant state of ice and snow for far too many decades.
He couldn’t afford to be distracted or led astray by this alluring warrior with her invisible battles and electric spirit.
As the physical distance between them grew the farther away he got, the space between their souls widened, and he refused to admit how much he hated it.