Chapter 25
Vali and his three brothers approached their group, Gerrie hanging on Henny’s arm.
Westley’s insides squirmed as Vali embraced Solveig for far too long. The Elven prince even leaned into the crook of her neck and nuzzled. Westley couldn’t hold back the slight growl that escaped him—his sisters caught the noise, their brows raising.
When the pair finally separated, Vali kept his arm around Solveig’s waist and smiled, catching Westley glaring at them.
“Can I assume Solveig has managed to offend everyone in the circle merely by existing?” Vali asked with a playful squeeze of Solveig’s waist. She punched his side, eliciting a surprised cough. Westley wished she had punched him harder.
Broken a rib. Punctured a lung.
Snapped his arm off where his hand grazed her bare hip.
“Quite the opposite, actually,” Solveig started. “I’ll have you know I was doing nothing wrong—”
“A likely story,” Bo muttered, and Solveig shot him a playful glare.
“You know,” Westley cut in, “I think it’s time for a dance.” He stepped right up to Solveig and offered his hand. “General?” He heard the confusion of the Elven princes behind him. He’d let Noren fill them in after he stole her away.
Solveig hesitated, and he tried not to let that sting. The presence of Noren, Viggo, and Brenna at his back was not helping the fragile trust they’d developed over the past few weeks.
His hand lingered in the air, and he decided that she’d have to publicly rebuff him if she didn’t want to dance. He would not pull away.
Easta’s muffled chuckle broke the spell, and Solveig slid out of Vali’s embrace, placing her hand into Westley’s waiting palm. He gripped her firmly, hoping no one saw the spark that sprang from their skin when they touched.
Westley led her out to the dance floor as the musicians began performing a new song, the minor notes ringing through the hall. Rows of pairs lined up for the dance. She stood across from him, still holding his outstretched hand.
The first few beats of the song rang out and the dance began, couples coming together in practised steps. Westley placed his hand on her waist, the feel of her soft skin sending energy and magic swirling in his blood.
Everything around him melted away until it was only the two of them.
Their bodies pressed close together, closer than necessary for this dance. Her hand rested on his arm as he lifted their joined hands, moving them to the intoxicating music as the chords built and swelled around them.
This song would permeate his dreams. The way her body moved against his would haunt even his waking moments.
He’d never been a good dancer—he’d had lessons as a faeling like all the heirs did, but he never took to it.
He was too big, and though his Fae heritage made him graceful, the music never moved him as he had seen with other dancers.
The movements always felt stilted and awkward, with him leading too forcefully or not enough.
But with Solveig in his arms, he led them through movements he didn’t know he remembered, and she followed his steps, adding her own flare to the song in his soul.
His grip on her tightened when he pulled her back in close, so close he could feel her everywhere, and still, it was not close enough. The lights flickered above them as the air charged with electricity.
Her stormy scent filled his senses, binding him in an inescapable hold.
The connection pulled taut between them, urging them closer.
They broke apart and came back together like a magnetic force. He leaned into her as she inhaled through their movements, twirling and swaying. The white and gold marble ballroom with its tables of decadent food and crystal chandeliers became a distant memory. There was only her.
She pressed in, breaking their heated silence.
“I hope you know, Prince,” Solveig said through clenched teeth, “I plan to make you pay for every second I spent in that cave under your watch.” She said it as though she needed to remind herself of their history.
Fervour filled her eyes and Westley drank it in, transfixed by the way her mouth moved.
He leaned closer so their noses were practically touching. “Do you promise?” he whispered with a wicked grin.
She inhaled, her gaze flicking to his mouth. “I promise,” she vowed, her voice husky.
Westley’s blood thundered through his veins, and only at the very last second did he remember where they were. He forced himself to take a step back, immediately missing the feel of Solveig’s body against his as the last notes of the song beat like a drum in his heart.
“May I have the next dance?” Vali stepped between them, offering Solveig his hand.
She didn’t take her eyes off Westley as he backed away, but she nodded and Vali moved, blocking Westley’s view of her.
He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind on the way back to his sisters, refusing to give in to the violent need to punch the Elven prince.
“Um, excuse me,” Easta started, her eyes wide and mischievous. “What was that?” She jerked her head towards the dance floor.
“It’s called dancing,” he said, his throat still thick. He tore his eyes away from Solveig, unable to stand seeing another male’s hands on her. Both sisters gaped at him and he sighed.
“If that’s dancing, I feel cheated. I’ve never danced like that,” North teased.
“I have,” Easta said, her voice full of longing. “But we didn’t do it in public.” She elbowed Westley, winking. He needed to change the conversation.
“Noren filled everyone in?” he asked, hoping to distract them and himself from Solveig. He turned his back to the dance floor.
“He did,” North said with a strange lilt in her voice. She was staring at Viggo and Noren, who were laughing with Gerrie. “Though I know of the facts, seeing everyone come together is giving me a new perspective.”
“What do you mean?”
North paused, as if choosing her words carefully.
“It seems like a very complicated situation. I’m assuming Solveig’s shieldmaiden knows who they are, and yet, they’re getting along.
” She gestured in Gerrie’s direction where she stood with Viggo and Noren.
“And you dance with her like the Norns themselves wove your fates with the same threads.”
“It is complicated,” Westley said simply, watching his friends with a frown. Even Noren was smiling at Gerrie, but that could have more to do with the empty wineglass in his hand. North’s words tugged at his soul, like it recognized the truth but had no words for it.
“Mother and Father also told us what happened in Vanaheim, though it seems it slipped their mind to tell us Solveig Tordottir was Asgard’s general. I wonder why?” Easta pondered, though by the sound of it, she didn’t actually wonder.
“Mother and Father have kept much from us, it seems,” Westley hinted. North caught his gaze and nodded in understanding.
“That they have,” she said quietly. “And you trust her.” It was not a question.
“I do.”
North and Easta shared a look Westley couldn’t decipher, and then their smiles turned evil as they looked behind them. “Oh, look.” Easta nodded towards the dance floor, a laugh in her voice. “Another strapping male is dancing with Solveig.”
Westley gritted his teeth as an Asgardian Fae he didn’t know placed his hands on Solveig.
Solveig’s face transformed into a breathtaking smile. Their heights nearly matched. The Fae pulled her close, and that part of Westley that recognized North’s words about the fates wanted to rip the male’s throat out.
And the next male and the next.
He tried not to watch, but his eyes always found their way back to her. She never met his gaze though he felt her awareness through their connection. Each time he attempted to speak with her, the walls of her mind remained solid.
She was deliberately keeping him out.
“Ten gold marks says he pounces on the next partner,” Easta whispered to North. Westley ignored them. They’d been making bets beside him for the last ten minutes.
North won five gold marks when he wasn’t able to stop himself from looking at Solveig for a whole song. Easta won those marks back betting that he would growl during a dance with a Vanir male. He’d tried not to, he really had.
But when the Vanir’s hand drifted down to graze the top of Solveig’s ass, he couldn’t stop the low rumble from escaping. It was the only time Solveig had glanced in his direction, for a second far too brief for his liking.
“Here comes another one. I’ll take that bet,” said North.
Westley turned to look at Solveig and his shoulders relaxed, sore from being hunched to his ears. Conalle had arrived and was pardoning himself as he snuck to the top of the line that had formed to dance with Solveig.
Conalle caught his eye over the crowd and winked. Westley turned back to his sisters, a smile on his lips.
Easta visibly deflated—they all knew Conalle wouldn’t try anything. She handed ten gold marks over to North.
“She’s under your skin, West,” North accused, slipping the gold into her clutch.
He didn’t bother denying it. “I know,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair.
The lively song brought Solveig and Conalle around to Westley’s side of the dance floor. When it finished, both Solveig and Conalle were grinning ear to ear, slightly out of breath.
Solveig stayed on Conalle’s arm as he led them towards Westley and his sisters.
Before any of them could speak, the doors blasted open, a cool draft flying through the ballroom as the music screeched to a halt. Everyone turned their gazes up to the entrance.
A shadowed figure stood in the doorway as the announcer scrambled up to greet the newcomers. Westley held his breath, expecting his grandfather to finally join them, but when the announcer called out the names, he let out a breath of relief.
Maybe they would get lucky and he wouldn’t come.
The trumpet blew faintly before the announcer called out, in a shaky voice, “Introducing President Hugo Langley of Midgard, his wife Nina Langley, and their daughter, Dayana Langley.”