Chapter 13
Solveig gasped as the pain from her wound took hold of her entire body. Her magic tried to break free, but it was no use—the poison was too strong. She’d known something was wrong the moment it entered her heart, preventing her from focusing on anything but the pain.
She needed to feel something, anything to fuel her magic. But physical pain was not an emotion. Dark spots appeared in her sight, her vision blurring.
Helle’s soft breath washed over her face and Solveig tried to hold on to it. It was concerning that she couldn’t feel the warmth of her horse’s body.
Conalle and Noren were fighting above her—fighting with each other or fighting to keep her alive, she didn’t know.
Her veins filled with ice as her blood spilled out. She understood what that meant, having heard it described countless times in her four hundred and twenty-six years.
Before now, she had never felt the sting of dying. Not in the cave, not on the battlefield. She’d walked side by side with Death, delivering Her to countless people, but She had never come for her.
Death was here for her now.
Westley’s words replayed in her mind.
Please.
His desperation had given her a small boost of power, but it was not enough—she couldn’t feel anything past the pain, past the darkness. She was not scared. The shadows that embraced her felt familiar, like coming home after a long journey.
Though she could no longer see, she heard hooves stomping close, followed by running footsteps.
“Solveig, I have you, hold on.”
She tried to answer but couldn’t. Air stirred, bringing a waft of salt and sea to her. Her magic yearned for the source of that smell, reaching out as though it could save her.
Her consciousness clung to anything that brought him closer.
The bandages loosened followed by a low growl. Pressure on her wound and then a stinging pain. A hiss escaped her as the burning tore through her veins. There was muffled noise, as though she was underwater, that sounded vaguely like talking.
She couldn’t hear his voice. She couldn’t hear anything.
The pain drowned everything out.
“It was working! Why did it stop working?” Westley panicked as Solveig’s eyes fluttered shut, her breathing gargled and slow.
Conalle rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Some wounds take too much of a toll, West.” The pain in his voice was evidence of his defeat.
“No. NO!”
The wind taunted him as it brought the scent of her blood. Westley grabbed Solveig’s lifeless face between his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. He concentrated as hard as he could on that living current of magic beneath his skin, willing it into her cold and clammy body.
“You do not get to die.” His heart ached like never before. He couldn’t breathe. “Live, Solveig, live.” His voice cracked. Tears trickled down his face and onto her cheeks. He tasted the salty water as he let them flow freely, bringing her entire body to his, holding her against him.
“Please,” Westley begged, his voice barely above a whisper, for that was all the sound he could muster.
He willed his essence into her, forcing her soul to remain in her body, using his lifeforce to keep her tethered to this world. He prayed to whoever was listening.
“Do not take her,” he pleaded.
“How is this possible?” Conalle whispered, but Westley couldn’t focus on him. There was only her.
Please live, please live, please live, he chanted over and over again.
“West . . .” Noren started.
He ignored him too.
“Westley, it’s working!” Conalle said in astonishment.
The words registered and he opened his eyes, holding his breath while studying the female in his arms. Her skin was still cold, but colour crept ever so slowly up the sides of her face.
“Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop,” Noren whispered. Westley glared at his oldest friend, his disdain causing Noren to put his hands up and back away. Westley turned his attention back to Solveig.
The plant mixture had done its job, staunching the bleeding and stopping the flow of poison. The three Fae males watched in amazement as the black veins gradually began to dissipate.
Though her eyes remained closed, the rise and fall of her chest became deep and steady, her breathing no longer raspy.
Another wave of tears fell from Westley’s eyes, soaking into her skin as he held her close, willing her to live. He pushed every emotion he was feeling into her, into the connection between them, until her magic responded.
It reached out to him, curling into his soul, and he gave her everything he had.
At her gentle stir in his arms, he expelled a relieved laugh, hugging her close and reflexively kissing the top of her head, his lips coming away rather tingly. He took her face in his hands, watching with rapt attention as she opened her eyes. Light flared as her gaze settled upon him.
Relief overpowered his senses.
“You’re welcome,” he whispered on an exhale, the suffocating weight lifting off his chest. She tried to shove him, eyes rolling. She wasn’t strong enough to actually push him away, but he reluctantly let her go. Conalle swooped in to hug her as Helle stood, her huge body jostling them.
“That was a close one,” Solveig breathed, voice hoarse.
Conalle laughed. “Too close, Sol, too close.” The lord embraced her again before leaning back to take a good long look at her. “How are you feeling?”
“Like death.”
Westley winced at her choice of words—she had been too close, and didn’t need reminding. He watched with rapt attention as she took a deep breath and heaved herself up, her forehead beading with sweat at the effort.
“Come on, Sol, let’s get you cleaned up.” Conalle helped her to her feet, slinging her arm around his shoulders. Westley could only stare as she walked away from him.
Like she could sense his gaze, she raised her middle finger without turning around. His body flooded with relief and joy.
When they were out of sight, he rounded on Noren, grabbing his shirt in a tight fist. With the adrenaline leaving his body, there was room for the rage he had shoved aside in favour of saving Solveig’s life.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know . . .” Noren’s voice trailed off.
“You didn’t know what?” Westley growled.
Noren furrowed his brows. “I didn’t know she was . . . That you are . . . How can you feel her pain?”
Westley shoved him back, raking a hand through his hair, his relief overpowering his anger again. His head throbbed with the volatility of his emotional whiplash. “I don’t know. I think . . . I think it has something to do with our magic.”
Noren stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“On the night we captured Solveig, I felt my magic wake. It’s been getting stronger ever since. As you’ve seen, so has hers. I don’t know why, but some of our magic seems to have broken through the Block.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Noren accused.
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“You told her.”
“I couldn’t hide it from her—she can feel it, like I can feel hers.”
“You don’t think . . .” Noren didn’t finish his thought.
“Don’t think what?”
“You don’t think she might be playing you? How is it that she has her magic? You say she can only feel yours, but how do you know that’s true? Hel, she could be working with Ragnvald for all we know!”
Westley gaped. It hadn’t even crossed his mind, but he supposed it was plausible. His grandfather had been keeping secrets far greater than he imagined, what’s to say he wasn’t hiding more?
The King of Hel was a mastermind, had sat on his throne for a millennium scheming against Asgard. He had every right—they’d stolen his throne.
If it was anyone else, he would have given the idea more weight.
“She has her secrets but not with Ragnvald. I trust her.”
“Well I don’t.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Come off it, West, of course I trust you.”
“Then you have to trust her.”