Chapter 55 Westley
Westley’s mouth dropped open. He was not expecting her to suggest they spend more time together.
Maybe last night really had meant something to her. Maybe she was beginning to trust him. He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, but Solveig continued to speak, either not noticing or ignoring his reaction.
“That is, if you’re up for it,” she challenged.
“I’ve excelled at teaching your people, General. I think I can manage teaching you,” he said hotly. Solveig remained stoic.
“Excelling at teaching a group of people does not necessarily mean you can teach someone one-on-one. There are many skilled warriors who have neither the ability nor the patience to explain their craft to an individual,” she said.
He had to admit she was right. Given what he knew about her, teaching her would not be easy.
She was stubborn and hot-headed. But so was he.
“Fine. When do we start?” he asked. She smiled again, but it was not one of amusement—it was the smile of a hunter who’d just cornered her prey. He should probably get his head examined, because he did not mind being her prey for one second.
She went back to the tree she’d been leaning against and pulled a bow out from behind it. It was a beautiful weapon, sized to her perfectly—he assumed it had been made for her. She slung the accompanying arrows across her back. Her steps were light and soundless as she stalked towards him.
“May I?” he asked and held his hand out for her bow.
She hesitated before handing him her weapon. It was solid and intricately handcrafted but was not made merely to be ornamental—it was created to be used. Hopefully she’d had lessons from whoever crafted it for her. He raised an eyebrow.
“An Elven who lived in the palace made it for me. He was an advisor to the queens and was like a brother to me.” Her eyes were sad. Westley guessed he was no longer with them. “He died protecting me in the war,” she said softly.
“He didn’t teach you how to use it?” He hadn’t meant for the question to come out so harsh.
“We didn’t exactly have hundreds of years of lessons before the mortals attacked,” she snapped. He put his hands up.
“I’m sorry, Solveig.” She startled at the sound of her name. He loved seeing her react to him. “I just meant to ask how much you already know.”
“You may want to brush up on your Vanir if that’s what you think your question meant.”
“You’re probably right.”
“He gave me the basic lessons. How to string the bow, to replace my arrows, how to hold it and aim. I’m not a novice, but it’s a useful skill, and I’d like to improve.”
“Alright, then let’s see what you’ve got.” He unstrung the bow and handed it back to her.
“Seriously?”
“What? You said you could string it, and I want to see. It’s a practical teaching technique to assess what your student already knows.
” Solveig bristled at his condescending tone, but she did as he asked.
She strung the bow quickly, her capable fingers swift and sure, like she had executed the motion a thousand times.
Maybe she had. She must have caught his admiring look because her smile turned cocky.
“Better than you expected?” she asked.
“From now on, I’m going to assume that you’re better than I expect at everything you do.” He smiled suggestively at her.
“Oh, you have no idea.” She ran her hand up the shaft of the bow and then burst out laughing at his expression. His mouth went dry and his jaw dropped again. He needed to wire the stupid thing shut. Otherwise, she was going to think he was a gaping fool.
Clearing his throat, he said, gesturing to her newly strung bow, “Alright, General, time to put your body where your mouth is.”
She raised her brows and sighed with exasperation. “That is not the saying.”
“What?”
“The mortals say, ‘Put your money where your mouth is.’ Not your body.”
“That makes no such sense!” he exclaimed. Solveig put her hands up.
“Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t come up with it.”
“So, what, you’re supposed to pay someone to do the thing you’re boasting about? Or eat your money? Putting your body into action to prove your words is much more accurate.”
“It’s a gambling phrase.” Solveig sighed. “It’s meant to be motivational.”
“I stand by my opinion. Regardless, time to put out or get out,” he said with a serious face. Solveig raised both eyebrows.
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? There’s no way a member of the royal family doesn’t know these things.”
“What?”
Solveig laughed again when he appeared genuinely confused.
“It’s ‘put up or shut up.’ Put out means something very different to mortals.” His continued confusion must have been obvious because she loudly whispered, “Sex.”
His mind came to a screeching halt. Hearing that word from her mouth was not fair. He was losing control and couldn’t find it in himself to care. Recovering from his bit of shock, and not bothering to hide his interest, he said, “Again, I stand by my phrasing.”
When she laughed, his control slipped a fraction more. Goddess save him, he loved the sound.
Solveig notched an arrow into the bow and then swiftly brought it up, pulling the string back to the corner of her mouth. He took this opportunity to really look at her.
Her body was strong and lean, graceful even when standing still. He identified areas that could help improve her skill—her stance, and the way she drew back the bow. Her head was tilted too far for the arrow to fly straight.
When he nodded, she let the arrow go. As he predicted, it missed the tree she was aiming for. It did graze the bark, which was impressive. Solveig’s jaw was set, and Westley was coming to know that look of frustration. Thankfully, it was directed at herself this time.
“I take it back,” he said.
She whirled on him. “What?”
“Assuming you’re better at everything than I expect. That was pitiful.”
She narrowed her eyes at the tree. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“You’re right. For an amateur, it wasn’t the worst I’ve ever seen.”
“Careful, Prince. You may best me at archery, but I’ve already proven I can beat you in other ways.”
“I didn’t entirely mind you taking me down, but I can think of better things to do while rolling around on the ground, if you want another go.”
She snorted. “No thanks.”
That part of him that was completely at her mercy heated. But he had to keep himself in check. “Stop stalling and do it again. This time, stand with your feet a little wider and relax your shoulders. Let’s see if that little tweak helps.”
Solveig surprised him by doing exactly as he asked without any snarky remarks.
With the adjustments he suggested, she loaded her bow and let the second arrow go.
It stuck in the tree this time, even if it was barely on the edge.
The slight tug of her lips made his heart race as a warm sensation flooded through him.
On the next try, he made her wait before releasing the arrow.
He circled her, daring her with his eyes to shoot him when he stood in front of her loaded weapon.
She smiled wickedly, flexing the string, but remained still while he assessed her.
When he stood behind her, the muscles tightened on the back of her neck. Westley fought the urge to soothe them.
After a few more suggestions, she reset and this time her arrow landed closer to the centre of the tree. For the next arrow she nocked, he stepped closer, tugging on her arm to bring her elbow down.
That one touch lit up his entire body. His magic became hyper aware of her proximity, so he took a step back. This arrow went way off target. In his haste to step away from her, she’d stumbled, losing her footing. He stepped right back to her, almost on instinct.
“Steady,” he whispered. Goosebumps sprouted on her slender neck at the touch of his warm breath. “Nothing else in the world matters right now but you and your target,” he said softly.
Tension radiated from her body with him so close, and he desperately wanted to ease it. Maybe he would make it worse though. Sometimes she seemed so at ease with him, and other times she held herself back.
He laid a hand on her hip to guide her into the right position. The move brought their bodies almost flush, and her breath hitched. His other hand went to her arm and adjusted her elbow again before sliding towards her hand.
His large hand swallowed hers as he reshaped her grip, but her very essence enveloped him.
“Breathe, Solveig.” It was a reminder to himself as well. She let out a slow exhale. The wind whistled gently through the trees, surrounding them. The quiet forest became a world where they were just Westley and Solveig, no wars, no political bullshit, no godsdamned mission stood between them.
“Good. Now feel the strength of your arm. Let your body memorize this stance,” he whispered into the shell of her ear.
She took another breath and so did he, inhaling her stormy scent. Westley stayed where he was this time, even as that now familiar current of electricity passed between them. Leaning into her back, the side of his face grazed the top of her head.
Her body stiffened before relaxing into him, bringing her posture to the perfect position.
“This, Solveig, is how your body should feel.” Westley’s heart rate quickened. “Move with your bow,” he murmured, “and let it go.”
She only paused for half a second before the arrow went flying through the forest. It split an arrow he had shot at that same tree right down the centre. He let out a low whistle.
“There’s my general.”
He waited for her to move away. When she didn’t, he handed her another arrow from his quiver and she reset. Again and again, they went on that way, moving together as she shot arrow after arrow.
When she aimed at different trees, he helped guide her body to new angles. Westley was gluttonous as he took every touch she allowed. He was drunk on her scent, her small sighs, her curses of frustration. His body had never been more alive.
Though her back was pressed against his chest, he kept his lower half angled away so she couldn’t feel the evidence of what she was doing to him. She reached down to her quiver for another arrow but came up short. He went to hand her one from his, but it was empty too.
“If you want to continue, we’ll have to go collect the ones that you didn’t destroy,” he said quietly, hoping she couldn’t hear the hint of regret in his voice. He didn’t want to move.
“Okay,” was all she said before taking a breath and stepping away from him. He despised her loss immediately and instinctively reached out his hand to gently grab her arm. She looked up at him with those deep copper eyes, searching his.
“Solveig, I . . .”
A loud sound crashed through the forest, cutting him off.
The Vanir male he’d seen talking to Solveig in the council tent burst into the clearing.
The moment in time they’d carved out was over.
Solveig’s entire demeanour changed as she squared her shoulders and hardened her face.
Westley responded immediately, scanning for threats.
“Sten, what is it? What’s wrong?” Solveig asked, apprehension filling her tone.
“You have to come quick,” the young male said through panting breaths. “It’s Latham.”
“What about Latham?” Solveig pressed.
Is she concerned for him?
“Tell us what happened, witch,” Westley ordered, voice brutal and commanding. Solveig elbowed him in the ribs as the lad named Sten stared back with fear.
“It’s . . . He’s . . . General, he’s heading back to the mortal village to attack!” he finally got out.
Solveig straightened immediately, fury overtaking every emotion on her face before she whipped around and grabbed her bow.
Without another word, she was off running through the forest with Westley right on her tail, apparently willing not only to do whatever she asked of him but also to follow her without question.
He was well and truly screwed.