Chapter 78 Westley
Westley’s head throbbed as he wrenched his eyes open.
There was no groggy period of disorientation. He woke remembering every single moment before tendrils of that blinding light had escaped Solveig’s body and everything had gone dark. His parents were starting to stir, but his grandfather and guards were still out cold.
He had no idea how long they’d been unconscious.
Ignoring the nausea that roiled in his stomach, he jumped to his feet, head spinning. Solveig and Laeknir were gone. He still couldn’t process the magnitude of Laeknir’s betrayal.
But not in league with the mortals. With his grandfather.
Unease curled in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t make sense. He was missing vital information, something his grandfather had purposefully kept from him. Did his parents know? They must have. What else had they kept from him?
Westley raced out of the tent and stopped in his tracks. A shiver ran down his spine. Solveig had left Laeknir’s body slumped on its stomach in the muddy grass, the head a few feet away, eyes open.
The blood that leaked from the body was cool on his fingertips, but not cold. She couldn’t have gotten far.
He ran to the stables and cursed under his breath—both Helle and Njord were gone. He tried to call out to her mind but couldn’t sense her at all. She’d blocked him out.
A set of hoofprints in the mud led north towards the forest. She was headed to Asgard.
His body was still sore from being blasted by her magic, but he forced himself to move as fast as he could, his Fae speed kicking in once he crossed the threshold of the woods.
Solveig didn’t have time to be stealthy with two horses. The trail was easy to follow.
Soon, the deep sound of Njord’s whinny reached his ears, and he dared not believe his luck that he had found them so quickly. When he rounded the bend, there was Njord, reins wrapped and tied around a branch.
He was forced to slow down to untangle the mess the beast had made of the straps.
After struggling for longer than he’d admit, he got Njord out of the knots and mounted his horse.
“Run like the sea,” he whispered, and Njord took off. Westley raced through the forest after Solveig, urging Njord on.
Goddess, Helle was fast.
“Come on, faster. We can catch them,” he muttered under his breath, and Njord pulled on the reins, surging forward with a burst of speed. The forest flew by in a blur until he finally caught sight of the copper hair of both horse and rider just ahead.
Solveig looked over her shoulder, her icy glare meeting his own. He would not let her get away.
“You’re going to run, like a coward?” he yelled.
His words had hit their mark. She yanked on Helle’s reins to stop.
The shift in momentum almost threw her from her horse.
Instead, Solveig swung herself off Helle’s back in one fluid movement, drawing her swords as she charged towards him.
Westley slowed Njord and leapt down, his weapons rising to meet hers.
There was nothing graceful or playful about the way she attacked him. She struck to injure, to kill, and confusion swept through him as he met the full force of her assault. He could understand her anger at his grandfather and Laeknir’s betrayal, but this reaction went far deeper.
“Solveig.” He tried to speak to her, but she was not Solveig right now. She was the General of Asgard, intent on defeating her enemy.
Their violent dance was relentless, and Westley didn’t know how long they could keep up this pace. She must’ve been exhausted from the energy that blast of magic had cost her.
“Solveig, please, let me explain,” he tried again, but the cold mask remained in place. Her strikes hit his blade with so much force, his hands began to throb from the impact.
He thought he’d known the force of her anger, but their sparring was youngling’s play compared to this.
“I’m sorry, Solveig,” he whispered as their blades came together again with a force that sent him to his knees and she towered over him.
She stumbled back at the words, anger disintegrating as her face cracked in despair.
Emotions crossed her face at such a rapid pace, he couldn’t pick them out.
None of that mattered though, when she slumped to the ground, folding in on herself.
He stood on shaky legs, chest heaving with the exertion of staving off her brutal advances.
A sob escaped as she kept her place, kneeling on the ground, arms wrapped tightly around her body. The sound broke his resolve to keep his distance. He moved to her side, bending down to scoop her into his arms, helping her to her feet.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest. His arms automatically came up to return the embrace.
“Shhh,” he hushed against the top of her head, hands rubbing her back as his magic flared.
He inhaled through the pain of it freezing his veins and held her tightly. Even as she cried broken sobs into him, her body was strong and solid against his. Gradually her crying eased and his comforting strokes slowed.
They stayed locked in their embrace for what could’ve been hours before Westley pulled back to rest his forehead on hers. Whatever it took, he would make this right.
She would never break like this again.
Tension and heat slowly built between them as their bodies remained together. Her soft strength melded perfectly into his broad, hard body.
How many moments had they found themselves like this, on the precipice of something more than what they were? Her heart rate spiked and her breathing quickened to match his own. His hands braced against her back, a sense of rightness washing over him as he held her.
One of her hands slid around his hip and dropped while the other made its way up his body, her fingers running through his hair as she pulled his face closer to hers.
He breathed her in, even as thunder and lightning cracked in the distance. The air became thick, and his magic rose to meet hers, a current moving between them where their skin touched. Every cell in his body was alive and responding to her.
Westley closed his eyes and leaned in, feeling her other hand return to him, climbing up his chest. Her firm grasp on his hair matched the desperate way he clung to her.
The energy of her lips was so near he could no longer resist the urge to close the remaining distance between them, consequences be damned. He inhaled her stormy scent as a cold, sharp blade pressed to his throat.
His magic froze and his body followed suit. Only his eyes flew open, his heart stuttering as Solveig, her body still clinging to his, brought her face away.
She bore that cold mask he hated, her lifeless eyes meeting his confused gaze.
Fear crawled up his spine as he tried to move away but an invisible current held him in place. Solveig’s magic, once a thrilling and surprisingly comforting presence, shifted from inviting to deadly in an instant as she somehow managed to wield it.
Her voice was low and menacing as she leaned closer, digging the dagger in just enough to send a bead of blood trickling down his neck. Her eyes followed the trail before coming back to meet his gaze.
“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you the minute you stepped into my camp?” her cold voice whispered. The world came to an abrupt halt.
It was no longer her magic holding him there, but shock. Guilt and shame warred within him as she continued.
“You may have worn a mask and disguised your voice, but you couldn’t hide the essence of your magic.
Its chilling presence coiled around me every day for eighty-nine days as you sat at the edge of that cave, listening to my screams.” She dug the dagger in deeper, but her words cut him sharper than the blade ever could.
She had known. All this time she had known.
The hardness in her eyes, her immediate hatred—it all made sense now. His brief flash of understanding quickly gave way to more questions. Why didn’t she confront him earlier? Why did she invite him into her bed? Was it all a test? A lie?
“What shall I do with you today, puppet?” she whispered, imitating Booth’s voice. Westley tried to speak, but it was difficult, emotions and bile clogging his throat. He had no one to blame but himself.
“Why?” he managed to whisper.
Her head tilted to the side like she wondered that herself.
“You weren’t what I expected and I was curious.
I gave you a chance to redeem yourself. I told you I understood what this war has done to all of us.
I can be quite understanding, Prince,” she taunted.
“But your charade fell apart the minute your family slaughtered my people. Your kind is so tangled up in lies and deceit, and you are no better.”
“Solveig, I . . .”
She pressed the dagger, more blood coating the blade until it trickled down onto her hand. Her magic flared, as did his, when his blood made contact with her skin.
“You heard your grandfather. You haunt my nightmares. You invaded my very soul. When you hear me scream at night, it is you I see and feel as I’m sliced open. That is who you are to me—who you’ll always be. Fear.”
The word, the name, sank into his bones, his magic absorbing it, fighting against it, denying it. But it was true. She had to know, though, he had to tell her that it wasn’t what it seemed.
He gathered his strength, preparing to break free of her. But his magic wouldn’t cooperate, try as he might. There was only one way to get past her defences.
She took note of the determination in his eyes the moment he made his decision. Westley moved at the same time Solveig did.
Their eyes locked together, shock mirrored in their expressions, as they both felt the pain of a sharp knife sinking into flesh.
END OF BOOK ONE