Chapter 13
Hoenir led Westley up a flight of stairs as his companions watched him go.
Noren had tried to argue on his behalf, but the deal was already struck, leaving Westley wondering what the Hel just happened and why he had agreed.
He knew why though. Solveig had asked him to trust her, so he would. If he wanted any chance to ally with her, he had to try.
The male led him up the longest flight of stairs Westley had ever climbed, and when they reached the top, he was sucking down air in big gulps. Hoenir showed no signs of exertion, so Westley tried to contain his heavy breathing as much as possible. Hoenir smirked over his shoulder.
“Through here please, Your Highness.” Hoenir gestured to the door at the end of the long hallway.
With every step Westley took, the hallway seemed to extend. He didn’t complain, not even when it felt like he’d been walking for an hour down the dizzying, endless corridor. What kind of magic was this? After each step he swore he would turn around, demanding an explanation.
Building up his courage, he went to turn on his heel when the door abruptly appeared in front of him, so close he almost smacked into it. Alarm pricked the back of his neck, aware that he was alone with this strange male and no one outside this house knew where he was.
It unnerved him to have Hoenir at his back, silent as a shadow, breathing down his neck. The need to protect himself propelled him to reach for his daggers. He’d felt the weight of them but when he made to unsheathe them, they were nowhere to be found.
“The house does not allow weapons,” breathed Hoenir.
Shivers curled down Westley’s spine and his magic surged in his veins, urging him to run. He thought of Solveig, cursing her in his head, and reached for the door handle. It swung open before he touched it, a blinding light spilling out. Hoenir shoved him into the room.
“What’s taking them so long?” Noren asked, pacing the length of the bedroom Solveig’d set them up in.
The previous evening, after Hoenir had led Westley away like a lamb to the slaughter, the house had directed them to this room with some of the largest, most comfortable beds Solveig had ever slept in. Despite that, she’d tossed and turned all night.
Morning had brought a renewed desire to get to Asgard. She was just as antsy to get going as Noren, the sun having stretched its rays over the sparkling snow that blanketed the ground.
Conalle picked at the breakfast the house had provided, his leg bouncing as his eyes darted between Solveig and Noren. They’d been bickering all morning, first about the magic of the house and now because of its resident.
“Hoenir asked for the night and it’s morning, so he’ll be here soon.” Solveig yawned, getting back into bed. “Don’t fret, he’ll be fine.”
“How can you be so sure? Leaving West alive and unharmed wasn’t part of your deal,” Noren accused.
“I trust him. He never tried to kill me.” She tossed a pointed look at Noren, who huffed.
“When are you going to let that go?” he mumbled, taking a bite out of some cheese.
“When it’s been more than a couple days, right after I forgive you for capturing and torturing me,” she threw back.
“Okay, younglings, settle down,” said Conalle, collapsing back into his bed. “This is the softest bed I’ve ever had,” he said with a sigh.
“For what it’s worth”—Noren looked over at her—“it was never personal.”
“War is always personal,” she replied without looking.
Before he could respond, the door slammed open and Westley stomped in, fury on his face and magic swirling in his eyes.
“Let’s go,” he demanded.
The three stared at him expectantly, but he only had eyes for Solveig—anger-filled, glaring eyes. She smiled innocently, which only seemed to infuriate him further.
“You’re lucky killing you would destroy any chance of saving Idavoll, otherwise I’d wring your neck,” he said through his teeth.
“Had a rough night, did you, Prince?” Solveig asked sweetly, coming up to pat him on the cheek. He grabbed her wrist before she could touch him again, gripping it tightly. Her smile widened wickedly as he tossed her hand away.
“What the Hel happened?” Conalle asked, bewildered.
“Nothing. Let’s go,” he barked, and Solveig chuckled to herself. If he wanted to keep it to himself, she could at least enjoy guessing what Hoenir did to him.
They made their way out to the stables, stopping dead in their tracks. The building was in shambles, like it had been trampled by a stampede. Helle stood off to the side, munching on some grass she’d dug up from beneath the snow.
“What the Hel happened here?” Conalle asked again.
“This place is weird,” Noren muttered.
Solveig marched right up to Helle, who didn’t even bother to lift her head.
“What did you do?” Solveig put her hands on her hips as she waited for her horse to at least acknowledge her. Slowly, Helle raised her head and snorted.
“Where are the other horses?” Helle gestured towards the forest. “He’ll have my head for this you know?” Helle whinnied. “Was it at least worth it?” Helle bumped Solveig with her nose, and she sighed. “Alright, let’s get the others and get out of here before Hoenir sees what you’ve done.”
She mounted Helle swiftly and bade the others to follow. Their horses were settled in the forest, and they trotted over to their riders readily. Hoenir’s horses snorted and stamped their feet as they passed, looking like they might charge.
The owner of the ruined stables stumbled out of the cottage, bare feet sinking deep into the snow.
“You owe me double this time, Solveig!” he yelled manically after them as Helle took off through the forest, leading them towards Asgard. Solveig’s excitement escalated as she raced home, guilt tugging at her for keeping Helle away from her family for so long.
With a sense of satisfaction, Solveig ignored Westley staring daggers into her back as they rode east. She’d passed many pleasant nights with Hoenir, but given the male’s distaste for Idavoll royals, he likely hadn’t taken it easy on the Fae prince.
Her only regret was that she hadn’t been able to watch.
They only had a few more days until they would reach Asgard, and Solveig pushed them hard to get there quickly.
The silence was tense when they stopped next to let their horses rest. Neither Conalle or Noren dared to ask Westley what happened—his bitter mood filled Solveig with joy, soothing part of her soul still hurt by his second attempt at betrayal.
He’d been planning to trick her into stepping foot in the palace of a king and queen who meant her harm.
She didn’t know what to make of the prince and his contradictory decisions.
The prophecy consumed her thoughts, not for the first time that day. Betrayal had surrounded her.
“You know, Prince, I don’t know what you’re so grumpy about,” Solveig said innocently. “After my nights with Hoenir I felt much more . . . relaxed.” Her lips curled around her spoon as she took a bite of bland oatmeal.
The prince’s nostrils flared, his eyes burning. When he didn’t rise to her bait, she continued teasing him. “Maybe you didn’t do it right? I can see how you might be in need of some practice.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief, the complete contrast to Westley’s rage.
“Will one of you please tell me what happened?” Conalle cried.
“No,” Westley said shortly.
The lord slumped over dramatically. “I’m dying!”
“We can’t have Connie’s death on our hands,” she implored.
The prince’s teeth snapped shut.
“Sol, please, I haaaave to know,” Conalle whined. When Westley turned his back, Conalle winked, clearly enjoying himself.
Solveig was happy to play along. “Shall I, Prince?”
Westley stormed over, enraged, and stood towering over her. “I fucking dare you, General,” he hissed, the threat laced through his words.
Shivers curled down Solveig’s spine at his venom. When she stood to face him, her stomach clenched at his closeness, and she resisted the urge to clamp her thighs together, desperate for friction. Westley inhaled, his eyes going dark as his heightened Fae senses caught the change in her scent.
He gripped the back of her head, tangling his fingers through her hair, bringing her within an inch of his face.
Though his hold was rough, it didn’t hurt.
“Does my anger turn you on, General?” His breath washed over her. She could taste him. That pull deep within her urged her to close the distance. When his eyes flicked to her mouth, she stopped breathing.
Magic slithered over her, heightening her own awareness, his closeness demanding all her attention.
“No, Prince, revenge does,” she muttered into his lips as she leaned in, giving in to the lure. The air thickened between them and Solveig braced herself, balanced on the edge of a blade.
Noren coughed, breaking the spell as they jumped apart.
Conalle smacked Noren on the shoulder. “Why’d you interrupt?” he asked, offended.
“I don’t want to see that!” Noren exclaimed.
“Well I do,” Conalle grumbled into his food.
Westley stormed off without a look back and she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged her lips, even as her body protested the loss of his heat.
This was going to be fun.