Chapter 29
Afaint knock sounded, interrupting Westley’s thoughts. He whipped his head to the door that joined his rooms with Solveig’s. The knock came again, but it hadn’t come from there. In her absence, disappointment and relief warred within him in equal measure as he went to answer his front door.
The queens stood before him, still in their regal ball attire, sorrow etched onto their faces.
Dread immediately overpowered all his other emotions, and he reached inside himself to make sure Solveig was okay. Once he was sure the bond was intact, he tucked it away again. “What happened?”
“The mortal who claimed to be your mate is dead,” Koa stated, watching his every reaction. She would only find genuine surprise and sadness for the young girl.
“How?”
“A shadow of dark magic found its way into her soul and Solveig banished it. The darkness had already rotted the girl. There was no saving her,” Aelfsi explained.
Westley let his jaw drop, unsure of what to feel. Relief was the first emotion that coursed through him, followed quickly by guilt. He shouldn’t be relieved that an innocent was dead.
“Dark magic?” Westley asked. He’d sort out the claim the mortal girl had made later.
“You did not feel her death?” Koa asked shrewdly, perhaps ignoring his question on purpose, he couldn’t be sure.
“Of course not.” His secret was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t dare to let it out. He didn’t know what the queens would do or say if they found out that he was Solveig’s mate.
“Very well. Rest, Prince Westley. This is only the beginning,” Aelfsi warned, closing the door.
He wanted to ask more—the beginning of what? And what about the dark magic? But they were already gone. Falling back on his bed, he strained to hear anything from Solveig’s room as the thoughts swirled in his head. No sound. He fell into an uneasy sleep.
Westley woke with a pull at his bond to Solveig, though the sun had barely begun to rise. Only a faint haze of light shone through the heavy curtains on the open wall. That small bit of light would not be contained, no matter how hard the curtains tried to block it out.
Just like their bond.
It had unearthed itself while he slept and he could not put it back. It urged him to go to her. But when he followed its pull, it did not lead him to her room. Instead, he crept down the quiet halls of the slumbering palace and made his way outside.
The sun hovered on the horizon, painting Thrudheim in rich shades of pink and orange, like the whole city matched the fire that burned within him.
Burned for her.
The streets were quiet. The excitement of the ball’s abrupt end last night must have tired the people of Asgard. He passed no one as he wove down the winding streets towards the water.
Hot sand burned his feet as he ambled along the beach to the shoreline, the water’s effect on the power in his veins quick to cool the scorching temperature of his skin. He’d intended to make haste, but in the peace of the morning, he couldn’t resist the urge to slow and take it all in.
The events of the past year, it seemed, had altered the course of his existence. Nearly half a century and one simple year had changed everything. This moment of peace offered by the dawn was something his mind desperately needed.
At first glance, the change had centred around Solveig, but in reality, she had only been a catalyst. Of course, her presence in his life—his fucking mate, for goddesses’ sake—was upending in and of itself, but it was more than that.
Westley struggled to come to terms with how his heart had changed.
The male who had sat in the darkness that fateful night in the Vanir village and laid eyes on his mate for the first time was not the same male who strode along the shore of Asgard now.
Movement ahead caught his attention—a herd of wild horses racing his way. The majestic beasts of all shades moved together as one.
Their hooves kicked up sand, creating a cloud of glitter that sparkled in the rising sun.
Westley had to move out of their way quickly as they rapidly approached, hiding in the rocks that crested the beach. Wild Asgardian horses were territorial and would not take kindly to a stranger wandering into their midst.
Their vibrant colours—deep blacks, warm browns, crisp whites, and lush blonds—were a moving tapestry. Glorious and intricate. In the middle of the herd, a flash of copper caught his eye. He had to squint into the rising sun to see Helle running with her kind.
She was a magnificent beast and the sight of her pierced Westley’s heart.
He was about to head back to the castle when a flutter of white fabric caught his attention. As the herd came closer, he noticed a figure among the horses, running with them, through them. Solveig emerged, her long legs bare and loose white tunic billowing behind her.
She ran with the horses, almost leading them. Her face held joy and contentment as she slowed enough to allow Helle to catch up, using one arm to swing herself up onto her horse’s back without stopping.
Westley stood rooted to the spot, mesmerised by her grace and beauty. The sun continued to rise and the colours exploded across the beach as Solveig passed his hiding place.
Her bare legs gripped Helle’s sides and her arms flew out, eyes closed as she let the wind whip behind her.
She was a goddess.
Goddess of the sun that rose to crown her, of the sand that bowed at her feet, and of the broken pieces of Westley’s soul.
He stepped out from behind the rocks as she passed, unable to keep himself hidden, unable to stop his heart from leaping, from calling out to her. Her head whipped around and they locked eyes. She hesitated only a moment before jumping off Helle and letting the horses ride off without her.
They stood like statues, watching each other. Westley yearned to reach for her.
Was it a trick of the light, or did she take a deep breath before making her way over to him?
The sun rose behind her, bathing her in a golden glow. He should’ve moved but he couldn’t, held captive under her spell.
Nerves he’d never felt before—not on the cusp of battle nor in the midst of war—itched along his skin.
His heart had never beat so furiously as it did when she stepped towards him.
Magic flared out of him, the force of it whipping her hair back. It caressed her face before lunging towards the water. The sea answered his call, his need for release, rising behind her like a tidal wave.
She turned to marvel at it, no fear as she took in the wall of water that hung in the air as if frozen in time.
It was the first time she was truly seeing the vast expanse of his power—a power still limited by the shadow Block.
She must trust him not to hurt her, and that thought alone made him take a step towards her. Light filtered through the wave, casting glittering refractions of the sun’s rays like diamonds. As he reached her, she finally turned to meet his gaze.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“You don’t?”
It was a struggle to swallow the lump in his throat.
“Do you hate me?” He hoped that hadn’t sounded as pathetic as he felt in this moment, crumpling under the weight of his feelings for her. Under the possibility and fear of her answer.
“You captured me.” He flinched. Though her words held no bite, the truth stung anyway.
“I will regret it for the rest of my days, Solveig.”
She nodded once, as if she already knew that. He hoped she believed him.
He would’ve meant the words before his epiphany last night, but now that he knew who she was to him, he couldn’t see a plane of existence in which he could forgive himself.
What he’d done would haunt him for all his days and would follow him to wherever the gods deemed him worthy of resting in the afterworld.
Immortality was a fallacy. No being truly lived forever, not even the gods.
And Westley would live out millennia if he had to, paying penance for what he’d done to his mate.
He was grateful their bond remained incomplete so she wouldn’t be able to feel the turbulence in his soul. It was an effort to keep the emotions off his face. An effort that was, apparently, pointless, for she saw them. She saw him.
Her face softened, her throat bobbed, and her eyes shifted from side to side as if she was deliberating. He waited with bated breath for her decision, refusing to pull her in but unable to push her away.
It was an effort to remember the promise he’d made to himself just last night.
When she met his gaze again, there was something that resembled understanding there.
She took the steps to close the distance, hesitating before raising her hand to stroke his face. “What battle wages inside you, Prince?” Her words caressed and soothed his soul.
He leaned into her touch before wrenching away, undeserving of her forgiveness, if that’s what this was. Her hand fell to the side, but there was no pain on her face.
She waited, allowing him to gather his thoughts. He had to be as honest as he could be without making her his captive once more.
“Do you remember in the Southern Wilds, when I told you the story of the Seer that had visited Idavoll,” he began. She nodded.
“Sten had interrupted our archery lessons.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure he interrupted you telling me to fuck off,” Westley joked.
Solveig’s eyes brightened at the memory. “You deserved it.”
So loaded. Everything was so loaded between them.
“I did,” he admitted, chuckling sadly. “The Seer told me that a hungry wolf is destined to wage a desperate battle.” He paused, and damn him to Hel, his resolve to stay away from her vanished as copper eyes stared, open and vulnerable, back at him.
“I’d always assumed that she spoke of my duty to my people, to all the things I would do for Idavoll and the gods.
“But I was wrong to think that I was born to do anything but hunger for you.” It wasn’t a conscious decision to bring his hands to her face, to cradle her as he pulled her in. “I am desperate and aching. I am starving for you.”
Solveig tried to shake her head, but he wouldn’t let her. “You were made for more than me,” she argued with a whisper that caressed his lips.
How wrong she was.
“You have stolen my every thought, Solveig. I’m consumed by you.
I’m so fucking in love with you that my heart”—he palmed his chest, aching with the force of the confession—“beats differently when you are not near. Your very presence fills me with life, but I am not worthy of the air you breathe.” He took a moment to collect himself, and she allowed the silence to stretch between them as he struggled for words.
Westley took a deep inhale of her stormy scent before admitting, “Your every scream haunts my dreams. Haunts me because I do not deserve to love you. I only deserve your hate, your blade.”
He tore his gaze away and stepped back, dropping his hands, unable to bear looking at her, knowing he wouldn’t hear the words back. She couldn’t love him and he didn’t expect her to. He’d already gone far enough—he’d revealed too much.
Goddess, he was a fool to think he’d be able to be in her presence without laying himself at her feet.
Her voice was soft and quiet when she finally spoke.
“You told me you were that desperate wolf, doing terrible things for your people. I understand that,” she admitted.
She pressed her hand firmly on his chest, over the heart that beat for her, causing him to look up. Her face was earnest. Vulnerable. “I don’t have the energy to pretend I don’t anymore.”
His heart stopped.
He backed away.
“Do not give me hope. You have to hate me.”
She shook her head, stepping closer.
“Hate me. Hate me for loving you when I don’t deserve to,” he pleaded.
“I don’t hate you.”
“Solveig.” His resolve was breaking with every second she refused to back away.
She said nothing, only stared with those beautiful copper eyes. Did she feel it? The bond vibrated with energy, tugging at them, nearly exploding between them.
“Hate me,” he ordered desperately. His voice was rough even to his own ears. The demand seemed to jar her from the softness in her gaze. Good.
“Don’t you think I tried?” she exclaimed, finally wrenching herself back, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She pinned him with a glare, her eyes gleaming with emotion he didn’t dare name. “I tried to hate you. I wanted to hate you.”
He believed her. “Then do it. Hate me,” he begged, and though he was relieved she had put distance between them, he was a hypocrite because he couldn’t help but lean into her.
“I hate you,” she whispered with no conviction. He didn’t believe her.
Westley rested his forehead gently on hers, a soft, “Hate me,” once more on his lips.
She placed her hands over his heart. “I can’t.”
Their mouths were a breath apart as Westley’s lips pulsed, aching to close the distance.
He dared to hope, saying, “If you let me kiss you right now, I will never stop. I will drown before I let you go.” When she didn’t pull away—in fact, her body arched into his—all sense of conviction shattered. No logic or reason could stop him now. He was no match for the hold she had on him.
“Don’t stab me,” he whispered against her lips.
He felt the ghost of her smile before he captured her mouth with his.