Chapter 53 Solveig/Westley
Something heavy weighed her body down and water dripped on her face. Her magic flared to life before she heard someone calling her name. That wasn’t right. They didn’t know her name in the cave.
Panic seized her.
Did they find out? Had she said something without meaning to? She struggled against the irons that held her shoulders and arms in place.
Drip, drip, drip.
Cool water splashed on her face as she heard the voice call to her again. She knew that voice.
“You’re safe. I have you.”
She blinked rapidly and her vision cleared. Her tent. She was in her tent.
Drip, drip, drip.
As her eyes adjusted, terror struck again. A dark form with a shadowed face she couldn’t make out hovered over her.
Fear. Fear was here. He was in her tent, holding her down. She was about to scream when the voice spoke again.
“Solveig . . . a nightmare . . . okay.”
She could only hear bits and pieces through the pounding in her ears and her heavy breathing. “That’s it. Deep breaths.”
The voice was soothing, so at odds with the menacing figure that haunted her. She blinked again and he moved away, the weight on her body shifting. A flare of light ignited as he struck a match to light a lantern. It cast a soft glow over his face, highlighting his strong features.
She let out a long, slow breath.
The prince. It was the prince. He was holding her to the bed, probably to stop her thrashing. The dripping was from his hair. Her eyes adjusted and she forced herself to focus on him. To reorganize her thoughts. His bare chest was the first thing she catalogued.
She’d seen him shirtless the first morning after his arrival but had been trying not to look too closely. Now that she was up close, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. He was a masterpiece.
Scars and tattoos whorled over tanned skin that pulled taut over flexed muscles. When she let her body calm, he immediately responded. He relaxed, not having to use as much force to keep her in place.
Her eyes betrayed her, her gaze running past the trail of muscles on his stomach, following the line of dark hair and tempting shape between his hips.
She tried not to think of how close his body was to pressing against hers—fear still coursing through her blood. Her eyes dragged back up to meet his darkening green gaze.
He stared at her with such intensity she still wasn’t sure whether she was dreaming. But his hair continued to drip, and the moisture from the rest of his body seeped into her, even though he was holding himself above her.
His eyes were locked onto hers, their breaths keeping pace together.
Solveig let the cool droplets soothe her skin, her magic responding to both the prince’s nearness and the calming effects of the water.
It was too much for her senses, the nightmares and waking overlapping, so she closed her eyes, hands gripping the furs on her bed.
She was safe. She got out. Fear—the prince, she corrected—was here. The prince was here. Her magic stirred under her skin, flaring where his strong hands still gripped her shoulders.
“Solveig?” he whispered.
It was a shock to hear him say her name. It rolled off his tongue like a caress, and she hated that she liked the sound of it. She opened her eyes and met his stare.
She didn’t know what he saw crossing her face, but he loosened his grip and slowly moved away, situating himself on the edge of the bed. Solveig missed the warmth immediately.
He seemed to be struggling with indecision. Whether he should stay or go. Solveig didn’t know what she wanted either. Except when he moved to leave, she panicked and grabbed his arm, shifting to a seated position behind him.
They both jerked at the force of her hold and at the spark that lit up the space between them.
“What is that?” he whispered, gesturing to where her hand still held his arm. She pulled it away.
“I don’t know.”
“Does that happen with everyone you touch?” he asked, sounding unsure if he wanted the answer.
She hesitated. She didn’t know if she could trust him or not.
He was the Prince of Idavoll. She had overheard his conversation with Latham and Trella and knew he was trying to find a traitor among her people.
Before she could reply, he reached a hand towards her face, hesitating in the air before changing his mind and dropping it to his lap.
Like he could read her mind, he continued, “I’m not the prince right now. Just Westley. Just a . . . friend.” He smiled softly.
Friend. That wasn’t the right word. There was no word for what they were.
“No,” Solveig said quietly. “It hasn’t happened with anyone else.”
He nodded slowly, his face unreadable. “Do you have access to your magic?”
“Do you?” she challenged, throwing the question back to him.
They stared at each other, neither willing nor able to answer. Her magic was there in some capacity, but she couldn’t use it.
He shocked her by answering with her own thoughts. “No, I don’t. But I feel it sometimes.” It was a trust offering. He was giving her this piece of him.
“Why tell me this?” she asked, voice still hoarse from screaming.
His shoulders lifted, staring at his clasped hands, like he was trying not to touch her again. “Because I’m just Westley. And I thought that maybe you could just be Solveig tonight. Not a general, just . . .”
“Friends?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m not a general.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Were you in the meeting today?” she asked, some of the lightness coming back to her chest. It was good to talk like this. Sarcasm was good for her soul.
“I was there. I know what I saw.”
“And what did you see, Prince?”
He opened his mouth to answer—and given the irritation written on his face, likely something snarky—but realized his pants were soaking her bed and went to move away.
“Stay,” Solveig said before she could think of all the reasons why that was a bad idea.
“I’m soaked.”
“So am I.”
When the prince tried and failed to stifle a grin, Solveig thought over what she’d said. She punched him in the shoulder, making him wince.
“Ow! That hurt!”
She chuckled. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he said slyly.
“Yes, because that’s what happens when you enter a female’s bed? Whether she’s dead asleep or screaming out in terror, as soon as she lays eyes on you, her lady bits go all tingly.”
The prince burst out laughing. “Lady bits?”
“I thought it was the kinder term. I didn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities,” she teased. Westley gestured to himself as if to point out the fact that he was half-naked in her bed.
“I think we’re past delicate, General.”
So she was back to General. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Her conflicting emotions were becoming harder and harder to compartmentalize. Her confusion must’ve shown on her face because he pulled away again.
“I should go.” He got up and was halfway to the door, but Solveig couldn’t let him leave yet.
“What Latham told you about me isn’t the truth.”
Shit. She didn’t think that one through. He whirled, apprehension on his face.
“What do you mean?” he asked carefully.
“I overheard your conversation in the forest with Latham and Trella.”
“Fuck,” was the prince’s reply. “What exactly did you hear? And before you say ‘I heard enough,’ know that when people say that, they automatically lose all credit with me.”
“Oh really? And how much credit do I have with you?”
The prince chuckled. “Oh, you have plenty. Don’t avoid the question. What did you hear?”
“Enough.” He clenched his jaw before she continued. “Why would I tell you all the specifics when it’s so much more fun to leave you guessing?”
“Fine, I’ll rephrase, smartass. What did Latham lie to me about?” Did she imagine the flash of hope that crossed his face?
“It’s not that he lied, but what he told you wasn’t true.”
“Yes, please be more cryptic, it’s so helpful.” His sarcasm was endearing him to her more than she wanted to admit.
“He told you my father was mortal. That’s not true.”
Surprise flitted over his features. “He said you told him that yourself—you and Queen Koa. Your half-sister?”
“Yes,” Solveig said slowly, deciding on the spot what she would share. “Koa is my half-sister, we share the same mother. But my father was not mortal. No one knows of him because he—” She had to pause to rephrase. “He was dangerous and couldn’t be trusted.”
“So why tell Latham a lie?”
“The queens were wary of people getting close to me and finding out I was blood related to Koa.
The Trifold knew I was powerful, but because I showed up out of nowhere, everyone assumed the queens took me in out of the kindness of their hearts.
A bastard turned orphan. Powerful with magic but with no family to speak of, I was not a threat to the monarchs.
“When I grew and began forming relationships, my mothers decided to fabricate stories of my heritage. That way, if information was leaked, we would know who couldn’t be trusted. When Latham came into my life, he was told this version. Even Gerrie was told a different story.”
“But part of his story was that you are related to Koa.”
“Yes, but because everyone else was told other variations, nothing he said can be trusted.”
“So how do I know you aren’t lying to me now, giving me another version?”
“You don’t. I could very well be spinning an alternate history. But all you have to do is talk to others and you’ll see that every version of my past is told differently—if you can get them to divulge that information, of course.”
“I can only imagine how easy that would be,” he said sarcastically. Solveig smiled at him.
He looked around the tent and pulled the desk chair to the side of her bed, settling in. Solveig propped herself up on the pillows and gestured to his still bare chest and wet pants.
“Do you want a change of clothes?” she asked him.
“Why? Am I distracting you?”
Yes. No. She sighed and grabbed one of the blankets from her bed. “I can see your gooseflesh from here. You look chilled, Prince.”
“How many of these do you have?” he asked when the blanket she tossed to him didn’t make a dent in the pile on the bed. Solveig shrugged.
“Gerrie is like an animal when she sleeps. She nests.”
The prince raised a questioning eyebrow.
“This wasn’t my first nightmare,” she answered quietly.
The blood drained from his face. “How often?”
She stared directly at him as if in a challenge. “Every night since the cave.”
“The cave?” he asked cautiously.
Solveig narrowed her eyes. He was the prince from Idavoll, she had to remind herself. “I was chained inside a cave for three months while being tortured by sadists,” she said bluntly. He couldn’t hide his flinch from her.
He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“Good. I don’t.”
“Okay then. So, you and Latham?”
Solveig sighed in response. “Conalle is such a huge gossip, there’s no way you don’t already know.” She was grateful for the change in topic. She didn’t talk about the cave with anyone except Gerrie, and certainly not with him.
“He may have said something about it,” he said with a grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m surprised he didn’t give you a detailed list with the partners of every single person he has ever known.”
“And how many would be on your list, General?”
“It’s very rude to ask someone their number of lovers.”
“Not where I come from. It’s polite dinner conversation in Idavoll.”
“Oh yes, I can imagine the royal family sitting around your oversized table, enjoying meats and cheeses while each of you discuss your latest conquests.”
The prince laughed. “You have no idea how accurate that image is.”
“Really?” Solveig said, genuinely surprised.
“Yes, it drives our parents mad. So obviously, my sister and I try to one-up each other by offending their—how did you put it?—delicate sensibilities as much as possible.”
“And who usually wins?”
“Oh Easta, every single time. But she loves to embellish. North is too proper to participate.”
“And you don’t?”
“Maybe once or twice.” His coy smile told her that was a lie. “But my stories don’t need embellishing to be shocking.” They were toeing a very fine line, one she couldn’t cross.
They sat in companionable silence for a while. Solveig was surprised when she started to feel the tug of sleep at the corners of her mind. She usually never went back to sleep once she woke from a night terror, especially one as extreme as tonight’s.
But she was warm and safe.
No, not safe—her magic was flowing too painfully under her skin to feel completely at ease. Nonetheless, she was losing the battle as her body relaxed farther into the bed, and her eyelids began to droop before she snapped them open.
“Go back to sleep, Solveig,” the prince whispered as he got up from his chair.
“Stay,” she whispered back, her eyes closed, already drifting off. She didn’t know if she even said it out loud.
“Som du ?nsker,” she thought she heard him say in his native tongue, but she was too far gone to process what it meant.
Westley watched Solveig’s face relax into a deep sleep. Goddess help him, she was so beautiful.
And he was a fool.
He should’ve left when she woke and calmed down, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. She kept enticing him with her conversation and those eyes that saw too much.
Fuck. She had overheard their conversation. He didn’t know how much of it—he hoped just the bit where Latham betrayed her secrets.
He ran a hand over his face and rested his head back against the chair. She’d asked him to stay, so he would, but only for a bit. He didn’t think he would’ve been able to leave even if she hadn’t asked.
This witch had some strange hold over him. She had since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. He had that urge to protect her then, though he hadn’t known what it was at the time, and he had the same impulse now. He would do anything she asked of him, no matter what it cost.
And that put him in a very dangerous predicament.
“Som du ?nsker,” he whispered again.
As you wish.