Chapter 9
Westley scrambled to his feet, bracing himself before her.
They stood staring at each other, chests heaving, frozen in place. Her weapon had fallen to the ground with the impact of the wave.
No one moved for a heartbeat. And then another.
“What did you say?” Solveig finally whispered, water trickling down her face. She was soaked through, but her numbness had nothing to do with the cold water.
“What?” Conalle and Noren parroted.
The prince’s chest rose as he straightened, dragging in a ragged breath, running his hands through his sopping-wet hair.
“I helped get you out,” he admitted again, so quietly she barely heard the words.
“Explain,” Noren demanded.
Solveig couldn’t take her eyes off the prince, unable to even breathe properly. He took another deep breath, staring right back.
An unreadable emotion flashed across his face, but her mind overflowed with confusion. She didn’t dare reach out. She kept herself locked down.
When he spoke, her world spun.
“The moment I stuck you with that needle and caught you in my arms, my magic stirred. Not that I realized what it was at the time.”
“Did you know who I was?” she asked quietly, unable to stop herself from interrupting him.
“No.”
Something in her loosened at his answer. For a beat, it seemed like he was waiting for her to say something else. When she didn’t, he continued.
“Any time I came near you, it got more painful. I thought the pain was a warning. You were not trustworthy—someone to fear. It didn’t cross my mind that you were the general because you weren’t male. Which meant you must have been something far worse to provoke such a reaction.
“So I guarded you. I watched you. I feared you. I observed your strength, felt your power, and after the first week, I knew we wouldn’t be able to break you. Nothing Booth did would break you.
“For the first time in centuries, I began to doubt my purpose. Maybe this wasn’t the way to go about things. Anyone with your strength deserved better.
“I tried to ease my guilt. I gave you my clothes when Booth wanted to leave you naked. I took more shifts guarding you, keeping you as safe as I could. When it wasn’t enough, I watched. I witnessed.”
Westley tore his gaze away from her and rolled up his shirt sleeve. His forearm rippled as he clenched his fist. Bringing his gaze back to her, he stepped closer so she could see the tattoo of the wolf.
She’d seen it before but had never studied it this closely. The tail was a cluster of small dots and marks, the darker lines bleeding into faded ones.
“The lines are for the days I allowed it to go on, eighty-nine, and the dots are your screams.” His voice broke on the last word.
He cleared his throat before continuing.
“I counted, and at the end of each day, I marked them on my skin as they are marked in my soul. Three thousand, five hundred and thirty-six.”
His gaze was on her, and when she met his stare, his eyes brimmed with unshed tears and regret. He continued to speak, his words dripping like ice. Hatred directed not at her, but at himself—a brief wave of it overcame her as though his feelings were her own.
The Idavoll prince hung his head, no longer able to look her in the eye. “Your nightmares are fuelled by what was done to you, but my nightmares are fuelled by what I have done.”
Solveig couldn’t feel anything.
“That last day before your escape, when we told you your people had stopped looking for you, I heard your cry and my magic flared in response. I swear your agony was my own and I’ve never felt such pain.
In that moment, I knew I wouldn’t be able to kill you.
I wouldn’t be able to stand by and watch as the others killed you either.
“I”—he spared a glance at Noren—“I didn’t latch your chains properly. You were smart, and I knew you’d escape if given the opportunity. So I gave you one. And when you were out, I made the call to keep the camp empty, even against logic and reason.”
Too much. There was too much going on in her body. Her magic surged towards him. His eyes flared like he could feel her. She sucked in a deep breath when his cool magic slid down her body, searching for . . . something.
“Is there more?” Solveig whispered. He looked up and met her gaze, nodding. “Tell me,” she insisted.
“When you made it to the forest, I followed. If the others got too close, I rerouted them, giving them orders to search elsewhere. But you were so weak, your body didn’t have the strength to keep going.
“You were making your way to the river when you collapsed. I didn’t think. I ran to you, picked you up, and brought you closer to the river. I tried to wake you, not caring if you heard my voice. I didn’t care if you saw my face or if you found out who I was. I just needed you to live.”
I have you, hold on.
The words slammed through the fog in her mind as she replayed that morning. Her magic had stirred within her at the words, giving her strength to live. She’d thought Latham had whispered them to her.
It hadn’t been Latham.
Westley continued. “I was going to get you to the water and force it into you if I had to, but before I could, I heard the sound of hooves. Given your pace that morning, we must’ve been close to your camp.
I was hoping it was one of your Vanir, but I waited in the shadows in case it wasn’t. He knew who you were and he saved you.”
The silence was deadly as the last words fell from Westley’s lips, his confession stripping her to the bone. Solveig was laid bare—every emotion flew through her at such a rapid pace that she didn’t know what to think or feel.
Her head spun and she began to shiver, the cold finally seeping through her soaked clothes. Westley noticed the same time she did and reached out to her. She flinched. His step backwards became a chasm between them.
“I’m so sorry, Solveig.” His voice rang with sincerity.
“I know,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I need time with this.”
He only nodded.
Walking away, she stopped short and asked, “Did you kill him?”
Westley met her gaze, anger evident in his dark green eyes.
“Yes.”
“I want every detail.”
“Of course.”
The weight of his stare on her back was heavy. She had to dry off and get her thoughts in order. Did this change anything?
No.
Yes.
Was it even true? In her heart, she knew it was.
Even before he knew her, he’d saved her . . . after he’d broken her.
It didn’t change that he’d still sat in that cave, had let it go on for months.
Hadn’t she done the same thing countless times?
But she wasn’t forcing herself into the lives of those she had captured and tortured. She’d also never let her empathy override her common sense, her duty. She’d never freed any of them—their bones still rotted in shallow graves of various Southern Wilds camps.
Guilt was not something she felt often—she’d done it for her people. Could she blame him for doing the same?
No, she could not. Just as she’d told John, war turned them all into monsters. Including her.
Solveig stripped off her clothes and hung them to dry, climbing up the side of the waterfall to the small perch she remembered. She lay on the narrow cove, naked, the sun soaking into her skin.
The feeling of being hidden from the world, from everyone’s scrutiny, overwhelmed her. The freedom allowed her to take three deep breaths in complete peace, revelling in the light as if it washed away some of her shadows.
And she let her heart hope, for the first time in centuries, that maybe there was an end to all this darkness.
Maybe the sun could rise.