Chapter 54 Solveig/Westley
The sun streaming in through the fabric of her tent woke her from a dreamless sleep, the scent of last night’s rainstorm dissipating in the heat of the morning. It took only a moment for the evening’s events to catch up with her, and she registered that she was not alone.
She slowly shifted to see the prince sleeping in the chair beside her bed.
His head tipped back against the headrest and his mouth hung wide open.
Despite her misgivings about last night, the sight made Solveig smile.
She wished she had one of those mortal devices that used light to make an instant painting.
The clicking sound would probably wake him, and Solveig didn’t want to disturb his peace. When the moment passed and the situation became too hard to ignore, she was frozen with indecision.
On one hand, she didn’t want to be there when he awoke. What would she say to him? She’d asked him to stay and he had. On the other hand, she didn’t want to leave the prince alone in her tent. Not that there was anything of consequence in there to incriminate her, but was it strange to just leave?
Her answer came a moment later when he stirred, causing her to briefly panic and jump out of bed. In an uncharacteristic move of cowardice, she got dressed as quickly and silently as she could, slipping out of the tent and taking off towards the infirmary before the prince woke.
All she had was Laeknir now, and she didn’t care if he pretended to be annoyed at her presence—she was safe with him.
She didn’t want to think about how safe she’d been last night drifting off to sleep as the prince guarded her. A shiver worked its way through her body at the memory of him leaning over her before she’d seen his face. It was a scene she’d pictured a hundred times since the cave.
Fear.
She shook the thoughts away and entered the medical tent. Laeknir was speaking softly to someone in the other room so she began to organize some of the instruments quietly enough to not disturb him, but loudly enough that he would know she was there.
After some time, Laeknir emerged from behind the partition wall with no one following after him.
“Where’s your patient?” Solveig asked.
“Where are your manners?” he grumbled, putting the supplies back where they were before Solveig organized them.
“In the same place you left your organizational skills,” she retorted, tilting her head at the haphazardly laid out instruments.
“They’re in the exact right spot for me—I don’t need them in silly little rows.”
Solveig put her hands up in surrender. “Okay, don’t get your feathers ruffled, I won’t touch them again.”
“Good.”
“So where did your patient go? I heard you talking to someone,” she asked again.
“They wanted privacy. They left out the back,” he said. Solveig was taken aback by how dishevelled he looked.
“Laeknir, are you alright?” she asked, rushing over to him. He waved her off.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just a lousy night’s sleep is all.”
“You are not fine. This is not from a poor night’s sleep,” Solveig insisted, touching his face to check for fever.
He swatted her hands away. “Lay off me, you bothersome female!”
“Fine, you ornery male. You look horrendous,” she said matter-of-factly.
“How can I contain my ego with so much flattery?” he deadpanned.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way. You always do.”
“What are you doing here this early anyway?” he asked, changing the subject. Solveig raised her eyebrows, but he ignored her. She sighed.
“Well, I figured after yesterday, you couldn’t possibly survive without my help so I came to offer my services as your assistant for the foreseeable future.” An emotion crossed his face, but he turned his back before she could decipher it.
“Is that so?”
“Yes . . .” she said slowly, stretching out the word. He spun back around, face set in a curious inspection of her.
“Okay,” he agreed.
And that was the end of it. The rest of the morning was spent seeing patients, with Laeknir either nodding his approval or barking out instructions and corrections.
Just like the day before, Solveig lost herself in the work, trying to avoid thoughts of the prince and whether or not he had woken up shortly after she left.
She was glad she hadn’t stayed, if only to avoid a very uncomfortable conversation.
Instead, she let her mind wander to what she might do now that she was no longer general.
Despite what Gerrie had said, she couldn’t go to Asgard. The queens had to summon her first. She could continue to help Laeknir, but deep down she knew that she had to find a way to make the Fae who had captured her suffer.
No matter what it cost her.
Westley shot another handful of arrows at the trees.
They were so far away he could barely make them out with his Fae eyesight. His shoulder was sore from hours of unleashing his frustration with a bow and arrow instead of having it out with a certain Vanir female he couldn’t get out of his mind.
He’d jolted awake that morning, neck aching from the uncomfortable sleeping position, sporting the most painful erection he’d ever had. A blanket had fallen off him as he sat up straight. A blanket that he most certainly had not put on himself.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so late and so soundly, even in that godsforsaken uncomfortable chair.
Solveig was not in her bed and the furs were cold.
She’d been gone for a while. He wasn’t sure why he was disappointed.
What had he been expecting anyway? The disappointment washed away with that thought, relieved they didn’t have to have some awkward interaction like strangers who planned on one night of passion but accidentally fell asleep.
Westley wished that had been the case.
Not just because he wanted her so badly—it was all he could think about—but because it would have been less intimate than what they shared last night. He’d let his guard down and, eventually, so had she. He wondered how many people saw her like that.
He let another arrow fly at the mental image of her, drenched in sweat and terror.
It made him sick to his stomach. He thought of the scene she had described, chained to the floor of a damp cave.
The strength of his cold magic made him shiver.
He wanted to do everything in his power to erase that haunted look in her eyes. If only he could—
A twig snapped and Westley whirled on the spot, shooting the arrow he had nocked in place. He meant it as a warning and hit the tree right next to where he’d heard the sound.
Leaning against the millennia-old pine tree was Solveig. His blood rushed with heat. He was impressed she hadn’t flinched as the arrow landed an inch from her face.
Those copper eyes seemed to see right into his soul. Westley arranged his features into a mask of nonchalance as she raised one full eyebrow at him. They stood like that for a few moments until Westley broke the connection and focused on his target.
He could still feel her eyes on him as he drew another arrow, hitting the centre of the target with ease. He may or may not have been trying to show off when, with one swift motion, he sent another arrow flying, splitting the first in two.
“Leave us,” Solveig said quietly. Westley’s head snapped to her, confused. Was that really what she came to say to him? To ask him to leave?
All at once three sentinels dressed in black and dark green dropped from the trees, each tucking throwing knives into sheaths on their arms and thighs. Two of them left without a word, but the third stopped in front of Solveig.
She had dark skin and her black hair was pulled into rows of tight braids. The sentinel gave Solveig a hard look and a subtle nod before following the other two back towards the gates.
“I didn’t know they were here,” Westley said with a huff, irritated by his own lack of awareness.
“If you’d known they were there, they wouldn’t be good at their jobs,” Solveig replied with obvious amusement. She still hadn’t taken her eyes off him.
Westley’s blood pounded in his ears and through his body.
He didn’t know what to say, unsure whether to bring up last night.
He would follow her lead and only mention it if she did first. But was she thinking the same?
Did she want him to bring it up? He groaned inwardly.
Gods, he felt like a youth. When was the last time he’d been this tongue-tied around a female?
Probably in his eighties, around four hundred years ago.
One embarrassing moment passed through his mind.
Flora had been the prettiest female in their defensive manoeuvres class.
He’d just had an amazing summer of training and was proud of his gleaming new muscles.
Unfortunately, his ego had grown just as much, if not more.
He marched right into class and straight up to Flora.
Her eyes widened as she took him in, which caused him to panic and doubt his decision.
Instead of asking her out, he’d asked to be her sparring partner.
She agreed, throwing an excited grin towards her friends.
It filled him with so much confidence that as soon as they were in the ring, he punched her in the face.
He was so overcome by the hormones coursing through his body that he forgot to set ground rules for who would block and who would attack.
Her shocked expression and bloody nose still haunted him to this day.
The series of ass kickings he’d received from her friends in the following weeks was well deserved. From that day forward, he vowed that he would never let a lass drain all the blood from his head again.
As he took in Solveig, head empty, he knew why. She wasn’t a lass. She was a female. A strong, powerful female who was now studying him strangely. Right. He still hadn’t said anything.
“Sorry for shooting the arrow at your face,” he blurted out, immediately cringing at how stupid he sounded. Solveig chuckled quietly, a new mischievous gleam in her eye.
“You should be apologizing for your terrible aim. You missed,” she said dryly, tossing a pointed look at the arrow still stuck in the tree. He was about to tell her it had been a warning when he caught on. She was teasing him, which excited him more than he cared to admit.
He prowled to her, stopping a hand’s breadth away. He grabbed the arrow, keeping his eyes locked on hers, and yanked it out of the tree.
“Just repaying the debt, General. You threw a knife at my head,” he said, smirking as something flashed in her eyes.
“I’m not the general,” she replied coolly.
“A formality. You held the title for so long, and clearly your people still listen to you.” He gestured towards the trees where the sentinels had been. She smiled. Gods, she was stunning. “Plus, you have that authoritative tone locked down. It’s impossible not to respond to.”
“Are you calling me demanding?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Westley said with sincerity. “What can I do for you, General?”
“For starters, you should come up with another nickname,” she said, gracefully pushing away from the tree and moving past him, her scent filling his senses. She sauntered over to the closer targets he’d been shooting at, appraising each one.
Westley stood where he was, tracing her with his eyes.
“Not likely,” he muttered under his breath. She heard him anyway and threw him a withering glare. He smirked.
She twisted to face him full on, switching from playful to, well, the general.
“Despite the fact that you missed my head, you’re clearly skilled with the bow.”
He narrowed his eyes, unsure where this was going. He’d been instructing the witchlings and some of the guards during his stay, and knew she watched him.
“I want you to teach me.”