Chapter 7
Solveig was so close to gods damned rest and had almost made it to the tent Quillon had set up for her when Trella stepped into her path. It took all her remaining patience to stop and acknowledge her—she did not have the energy to deal with this female.
“What do you want, Trella?” Solveig asked, sliding her hands into her pockets so she wouldn’t stab the witch.
Trella tucked a golden lock of pristine hair behind her ear, eyes shifting. She was nervous. Good.
“We’re going to Asgard?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Trella’s arms crossed over her chest and her head tilted like she was in any position of authority and had the right to question Solveig’s choices.
“Why? We’re Vanir, we should stay in Vanaheim.”
“The Southern Wilds is a Vanir war settlement for the Asgardian armies, the strongest Vanir legion to have ever existed, and we just got wiped out. We need Asgard.” Solveig pinched the bridge of her nose. Why was she indulging this conversation?
“We don’t need the Fae,” she spat.
Solveig sighed. “You are more than welcome to leave. You’re not a soldier. You don’t have to come. In fact, you may want to consider staying behind.” Goddess, she wished they would stay behind.
Trella’s mouth dropped open. “But—”
“Look, Trella, I’m exhausted. I’d like to sleep for the next three weeks, but I only have half a day and a night to rest, so please spit it out.”
“What’s going to happen to Latham? Won’t the queens think he’s a traitor?”
“If I thought Latham was a traitor and not a naive soldier who made horrible choices, I would execute him right here, right now.” Solveig’s hand twitched in her pocket.
“You would do that to him? To someone you loved?”
She let Trella see the ruthlessness in her eyes, the vision of a head rolling across the grass swimming in her vision when she answered with a resounding, “Yes.”
Trella swallowed hard.
“Is that all?”
She hesitated like she wasn’t done, but Solveig was finished. Not waiting for the witch to say anything else, she turned on her heel and ducked under the canvas flaps of her tent.
“Seriously?” Solveig asked as soon as she entered.
Westley glanced up. He stood over a wash basin, his black hair damp and clean, chest bare as he scrubbed his body. Loose pants hung low on his hips, exposing the trail of hair that led directly to . . . Solveig absolutely did not look down. For long.
“Sorry, I’ll be done in a minute.”
Solveig blinked a few times, clearing the fog from her thoughts, and waved her hand in dismissal. “Please, take your time, I like a good show,” she said, taking her boots off and collapsing onto the bed.
Westley laughed and continued to clean his chest, wiping away the accumulated dirt and blood. He had a new scar on his stomach from the arrow the mortal had injured him with, and Solveig traced the line with her eyes.
Her body heated as she followed the dips of his torso, lingering on the sight of the wolf that snaked its way over his chest and down his arm.
It was an intricate tattoo, lines and dots and swirls.
Like it had recently been added to, some marks were darker than others, as though they were etched in after the original outline.
“Do you not have a wash basin in your tent?” she asked groggily from the bed, unable to fight the sleep that tugged at her eyes.
“This is my tent,” he said, surprised.
Her eyes flashed open. “This is my tent.”
He shrugged. “I guess we’re sharing.”
It shouldn’t be an issue. They’d been sharing a tent for months. But now, Solveig was exposed—her secrets were out in the open and couldn’t protect her anymore. Her armour had been hit too many times, leaving the flesh beneath vulnerable.
Westley finished up and threw a cotton shirt over his head, hesitating.
“Look, we’re both spent. The bed is enormous, so let’s just each pick a side and sleep,” he suggested calmly.
Solveig didn’t have it in her to fight, her body already succumbing to the exhaustion. “Fine.”
Westley moved towards the bed when the tent flap opened and Conalle entered followed by Noren, both freshly washed and clothed.
“Oh, thank the gods, a bed!” Conalle cried, flopping down beside Solveig.
“Excuse me?” she asked, shoving at the Fae lord. He barely moved.
“I know I didn’t almost die like you did, Sol, but we’ve all been awake for nearly three days straight,” he mumbled into the pillow, gathering blankets around himself.
“They only had one tent left for us, so we’re sharing,” Noren clarified.
“If I was going to choose males to share my bed with, it wouldn’t be you three,” Solveig muttered, arm thrown over her head. She couldn’t help it—she peeked at Westley just in time to see a muscle feather in his jaw.
“You don’t get a choice this time, so scooch over and make some room for Norry. He’s a grump when he’s tired.” Conalle shoved her to the middle so Noren could sleep on his other side.
“He’s always a grump,” Solveig huffed as she moved, resigned to a sleepless night.
“True,” Conalle mumbled through an open-mouth yawn.
“Fuck you guys,” Noren grumbled, turning on his side to face away from Conalle.
Westley stared down at the three of them. “None of you have any issues with this?”
“I’ll have an issue if there are any sexy times. I’m too tired for all that. So as long as you can keep your”—Conalle waved a hand at Westley’s pants—“all that in your pants for a night, we should be fine.”
He still hesitated. The only spot remaining was on her other side.
“You’re okay if I . . .”
“Get in the gods damned bed, Prince,” Solveig ordered, on the verge of stabbing someone if that meant she’d get to sleep faster.
The bed dipped as he slid in beside her, careful not to touch her. Conalle’s breathing deepened almost immediately, and soon after, Noren’s snoring rattled the fabric of the tent. Solveig groaned.
She’d just wanted a quiet, peaceful rest and was now stuck with the oddest combination of people in her bed.
Three Fae males: one of whom had just tried to kill her, the other like a pesky brother, and the Prince, who she’d almost killed.
It would not be a peaceful night.
Westley lay on his back listening to his bedfellows sleeping.
He’d been exhausted but now he was wide awake, his body humming with energy. He was unsure of what to do. Solveig had slipped into a fitful sleep. Judging by her increasingly agitated movements, she was having a nightmare.
He nudged her with his foot. When she didn’t wake, he nudged her again, more forcefully, immediately jerking his hips back when something sharp poked his dick.
“Why do you always have a dagger?” he asked.
“Why the fuck are you waking me up?” she retorted without opening her eyes.
“I didn’t think you’d want to start screaming now that you don’t have your Sound Stone.”
She was quiet for a moment. Westley sagged back into the furs when the tip of her dagger disappeared.
“I don’t know how to not have nightmares.”
He paused, giving her time to elaborate. She didn’t.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Her tone did not invite further discussion of the matter.
Changing the subject, he asked, “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“We’re leaving for Asgard at first light.”
She said we. “I’m glad to see you’re coming to your senses.”
“Don’t think this means I want you accompanying us, Prince.”
A long pause stretched between them, the air charging. Her breath fell in even waves on the side of his cheek, mint and rain enveloping his senses, sending shivers down his spine. His hands stayed locked into fists beneath the furs, the urge to reach out clouding his judgement.
“Were you really going to kill me?” The question fell from him before he could stop it. He’d been dying to ask.
“Yes.”
Part of him knew that would be her answer, but it still stung.
“Would you have regretted it?” He held his breath waiting for her answer.
“Yes.”
Solveig rolled onto her other side, her back now facing him. Her breathing slowed just a bit, but he had to say one more thing.
“Solveig?”
“What?”
He pressed his lips into a firm line, trying to keep the humour out of his tone.
“Sometimes you snore when you sleep.”
She scoffed and elbowed his stomach. “Asshole.”
Westley could hear the smile in her voice and was glad he’d been able to calm her.
Soon her slow, deep breathing joined the other two and he knew she wouldn’t need to be woken again.
That sick feeling that had burrowed in his stomach all day crept back in.
He’d managed to distract himself with their journey, but now, lying beside her and watching the hard lines of her face soften, he couldn’t avoid it.
The guilt would keep him awake all night as he pondered his next move.
He couldn’t see a way around it. He was most likely going to have to lie to her.
Again.