Chapter 49
He’d tried, he really had.
Solveig’s mood had shifted, putting him on high alert. She was up to something. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought she would suggest taking someone else as her mate.
Not that she’d be able to. She had a mate, and it was not the smug Elven prince.
Westley could tolerate watching her get married . . . probably. He could face a world where she was bedding another male. If that’s what she wanted, he could do that for her. He could step aside and let her be happy.
But he would be damned to Hel if he had to watch her try to mate with another. It didn’t matter what kind of repercussions he’d face—he’d tear that prince’s throat out if he dared to call her his mate.
She was Westley’s mate, and he belonged to her. There could be no other for either of them.
He stood on shaking legs, hands braced on the table, glaring at Solveig.
She’d baited him into this, which meant she knew. Had she just figured it out? That would explain her change in mood.
Solveig cocked a brow and he growled low again, though not out of rage this time. Her eyes lit with energy, and the swift change in her scent—lust and anger—filled his nostrils.
“What ever is going on, Westley?” his mother asked him. She hated causing a scene, and this was about to be one. But he ignored her, his attention solely on the blasted witch who held his soul in her cruel hands.
“You cannot mate with another,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Solveig rose gracefully, as if unbothered, and matched his menacing stance, preparing for a fight.
Oh, they were going to fight alright.
“And why ever not? It’s not as if my mate has claimed me,” she said, insolence dripping from her tongue.
His canines ached with the desire to punish her for it.
“You have a mate?” King Erik asked, surprised.
“Yes, she does,” Westley said, not taking his eyes off Solveig for a moment.
“No,” his mother breathed. “How did you—”
“Oh good, I wasn’t the only one left out of this little charade,” Solveig spat.
“What the Hel are you talking about, witch?” his father asked. A growl escaped Westley at his father’s tone.
“Do not speak to her that way,” he warned.
Solveig answered like Westley hadn’t spoken. “It seems that everyone at this table, except your parents, have conspired to force us together.” She averted her gaze and faced the Asgardian queens before turning to her friends and then her betrothed.
Steffen shrugged and smiled, leaning back in his chair like he hadn’t a care in the world.
Westley’s surprise must have been evident. When she turned back, she laughed, but it was without humour.
“Glad to see you also had the wool pulled over your eyes.”
“It cannot be,” Alvida said under her breath.
“But it is. Your Prince Westley and I are mates,” Solveig said, glaring daggers at him.
He scowled right back. Why the fuck are you angry with me?
Out loud she said, clearly ignoring his question, “Here’s the thing, Prince. I am Vanir, which means that I can still form a Hjarta that is not with you.”
Westley tensed.
“Solveig . . .” Koa warned.
Solveig turned to her sister. “How could you, of all people, keep this from me? You know the prophecy,” she hissed.
Westley furrowed his brow. What prophecy?
She did not answer. Fuck. He hated when she ignored him.
Koa’s expression grew apprehensive, as if she’d just realized how ugly this would get. “Solveig, maybe we should go somewhere private—”
“I am fine right here,” she said, interrupting her sister, turning her attention back to Westley. “Even if I am the mate of a Fae, my heritage allows me to choose another. You may not, but I can.”
Anger and hurt flooded his system. “You would do that?”
“If I have to, yes.”
“Westley, you have already let your mate promise to marry another. It seems you do not have control over her like you should,” his father censured. Westley whipped his head towards him.
“I do not let my mate do anything, Father. I respect her decisions for her people. If she chooses to marry, I will not stop her.” Though everything in him ached even to utter the words.
“You are weak,” his father sneered.
“Don’t you dare talk to him that way,” Solveig snapped at the Idavoll king.
“Solveig—” Westley started, grateful.
“Fuck you. I’m livid.” She shut him down.
“At me? For respecting your wishes?” he exclaimed, his anger rising again.
“No, for being such an asshole about it,” she spat back.
“How was I an asshole?” he reared back.
“West,” Easta muttered under her breath, “you didn’t tell her.”
“Why the Hel would I tell her?” he yelled.
“So that I’d know I was giving up my fucking mate by getting married. So that I had all the information I needed to make the right choice!” she yelled back.
He tried to control his anger. He was about ready to snap. “And what choice is that?”
“The Hel if I know, Westley, gods.” Solveig threw her hands in the air. He took a step towards her, his anger starting to soften. But she stepped away.
She glared. “Don’t you dare.”
“What?”
“If you come any closer, I’m going to rip your fucking head off,” she warned.
“Oh really? You think you could?” he challenged, his body alight with magic and rage.
“Do not test me right now, West.” But he was already stalking towards her. Her hands glowed, the energy in the room crackling. Magic swelled between them, the acknowledged bond trying to break through their binds with brute force.
“Are you threatening me?” he hissed.
“Yes.”
He lunged.
Westley launched himself towards her. She responded the moment he moved, grasping him midair by the throat and slamming him down hard on the table. Everyone leapt from their seats, moving to line the walls. Westley swung himself around, narrowly missing the fist Solveig threw at his face.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” she taunted.
He conjured a wave, and she raised a shield to block it just in time. He tried to do what he’d done to the mortal president and wrap her in water, but her light and energy burned through his magic.
She blasted him across the room, his body crashing into the wooden chairs, splinters flying in all directions. He jumped to his feet, recovering quickly.
His body collided with hers, and he overpowered her with sheer force. He pressed her back against the wall, trapping her with his form. His hand closed around her throat, gripping hard enough to keep her there without hurting her.
She bared her teeth, striking out with her legs. He coiled water around her limbs, trying to keep her still. Her magic fought back against his, and their violent dance electrified the room, steaming up the glass of the windows.
Solveig managed to free her leg, kneeing him hard in the groin. He hissed in pain but didn’t release her, squeezing her neck a fraction tighter. She snarled and his canines extended, aching to taste her.
A hand yanked at his shoulder, and in his frenzied state, he snapped at whoever dared to interrupt him. North jumped back quickly, narrowly avoiding Westley’s wrath.
She pinned him with a glare.
“Westley Erikson, I order you to stand down,” North said, the note of authority hard to miss. It had barely any effect on the fog in his brain.
Solveig struggled and broke free of his water. He reacted a second too late before she slammed her elbow into his jaw. The metallic taste of his blood made him smile.
Before they could continue, Steffen stepped between them. He must have had a death wish.
This male who was to marry his mate, who would get to touch her and love her and be with her.
Westley attacked—tried to, anyway. He was held back by two strong bodies he vaguely recognized as Noren and Viggo.