Chapter 12
“Solveig!” The resident of the cottage moved to embrace her, but Westley stepped in close, canines flashing. The male’s face turned amused as he took in the scene.
“Hoenir.” Solveig greeted him with a sigh, stretching out the syllables, making his name sound like warning. “Let us in.”
“Just the same I see.” Chuckling, he took a step back and let the four of them enter his cottage.
From the outside it didn’t look like they would all fit, but as they stepped inside, a wide expanse of space opened up, showing hallways and staircases leading to different parts of the house.
The front room was draped in luxurious fabrics along the walls. Rich, tufted furniture on one side framed an ornate fireplace, while the other side opened to a circular room, where walls lined with bookcases centred around a dark oak dining table crowded with mismatched chairs.
Though it was disjointed, it all somehow worked in the space.
Hoenir stepped into one of the halls and returned an instant later with a tray full of cakes, fruit, and large mugs of steaming liquid. He set the tray down in the dining room, gesturing to them to hand him their coats.
All while still in a towel.
The group stripped off their outerwear with varying degrees of apprehension.
Solveig sat and began to eat the offerings, Conalle right behind her. Westley remained standing, his posture primed for a fight as he faced off against the male, Noren hovering at his side.
“Who are you?” Westley demanded.
Hoenir laughed. “Didn’t tell them who I am, eh, Sol?” Solveig only rolled her eyes. “Ah well, I guess you couldn’t now, could you.” He laughed again before turning to Westley.
“Forgive me, Your Highness.” He brought his fist to his mouth and coughed, puffing up his glistening bare chest. “I am Hoenir.” He introduced himself with a drastic, mocking bow, arm sweeping across his body as he bent at the waist, causing his towel to loosen and fall.
Conalle stifled a giggle behind his hand.
Westley bristled at the male’s brazenness. “Pleasure. Would you like to get dressed?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Hoenir shrugged. “Nothing anyone hasn’t seen before, right?” He winked at Solveig, and Westley’s hand twitched towards his dagger. Hoenir noticed the movement, a sly grin pulling across his features.
“A new lover? It’s about time you got over me, Solveig.”
The male continued to bustle about, butt-ass naked, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Westley turned to Solveig for an explanation, but she just set her feet up on the chair beside her, watching the male move about the room.
She craned her neck to watch as he walked down the hallway, admiring the firm muscles of his backside. Conalle raised his hand in the air, eyes also glued to the male’s ass, and Solveig met it with a vigorous high five. Westley’d had enough.
“Who is he?” He tried to sound nonchalant but it came out tense.
“Hoenir,” Solveig answered, taking a long drink from her mug. She briefly closed her eyes, and Westley had to look away at the expression of pleasure on her face.
“Yes, I gathered that, but who is he and what is he doing living in Idavoll? He’s clearly not Fae.”
“No, he’s not Fae, he’s—” Solveig appeared to struggle for words, and if Westley continued to clench his jaw this hard, he’d grind his teeth to dust. “He’s an old friend,” she finished.
“Friend?” Conalle raised his brows.
“Yes, Connie. He’s also an old lover, but now he’s a friend.”
“Why are we here?” Noren asked with his mouth full of food, unable to hold out any longer. Westley, too, was finding it difficult to ignore the wafting aroma. His mouth watered but he refused to trust so blindly. Not again.
“Because I trust Hoenir more than I trust you,” Solveig told him plainly.
“Fair enough.” The fact that Noren accepted her reasoning so readily was a shock to Westley’s system.
“How do I not know about this place?” Westley asked, his patience thinning at the lack of real answers.
“Hoenir was here—” Solveig struggled, restarting with, “Hoenir has lived here far longer than the Fae. You don’t know about this place because that is his wish.”
“How did you meet him?” Conalle asked.
“He’s a friend of . . . He’s a family friend.”
Westley narrowed his eyes on her. Why are you acting strange?
It was the first time he’d dared speak to her this way since she almost died. He wasn’t surprised when she hesitated before answering, but it pleased him more than he’d like to admit that she did.
I don’t know what you mean.
I’m no fool, Solveig.
Then stop acting like one. You have enough information to glean one of two things, Prince. Either I don’t trust you or I’m not . . . I can’t . . . He didn’t know what to make of the look in her eyes as she stared at him, struggling to get the words out. Words she couldn’t speak.
Conalle looked between them. Now that Solveig had awakened the lord’s magic, Westley assumed he was about to join their silent conversation, linked as they were by Solveig. But he didn’t. He only looked confused.
Before anything else could be said, Hoenir returned, fully dressed in what appeared to be nightclothes.
“So, what can I do for you lot?” he asked, sitting on the opposite side of the table.
Solveig spoke for the group. “We need a place to rest for the night and provisions for our journey to Asgard.”
“That can be arranged. You know the deal, though. I’ll need something in return.”
Westley tensed, uneasy of the direction this was heading. But he was trying to build trust with Solveig, and if she trusted whoever this male was to her, then he would have to too. Didn’t mean he had to like it.
“What is it that you wish for this time?” By the sound of Solveig’s exasperation, he’d done many favours that required a trade in the past.
Hoenir’s grin was downright fiendish. “A night with you.”
Tense silence followed Hoenir’s request. Primal rage swelled in Westley’s body. He didn’t know why. He had no claim to the witch. But imagining her with this male, with any male—he fought the urge to throw her over his shoulder and storm back into the frozen wasteland of his realm.
Probably for the best he didn’t. Last time he did that, he got stabbed.
“No,” Solveig said, standing from the table. “You know better than to ask that.”
Relief flooded him, the beast inside comforted that she would not share this male’s bed. She walked over to where Westley still stood glaring daggers at Hoenir. He didn’t like this male at all. “But you can have the prince if you’d like,” she offered.
Westley’s eyes went wide with shock, his feet rooted to the floor. How could she—
What the fuck? Please tell me this is a joke.
Trust me. Those two words. Damn her to Hel.
I’m not going to bed him, Solveig.
She snorted. You won’t have to, I promise.
“Interesting,” Hoenir muttered under his breath as he watched the silent standoff. “I accept.”
Solveig’s smile widened and Westley’s stomach dropped. What the fuck was he in for?