Chapter 61
Westley was in the midst of getting dressed, his pants hanging low on his hips and his white button-up tunic still hanging in the closet when Solveig emerged from the bathing chamber in her gown for North’s coronation. He stopped dead in his tracks as he devoured the sight of her.
“I loathe you.”
It was the only thing he could think to say. She must have known what wearing a dress like that would do to him. By the smile on her face and her downright devious laugh, she’d definitely worn it on purpose.
Her dress was made of spun gold and dark orange fabric, complementing the colouring of her hair. The neckline plunged to her navel and sheer billowing sleeves cinched at her wrists. Two golden ropes twisted around her torso, crossing over the bare skin of her stomach and back.
The dress flowed like water, though it danced like fire. Swaths of fabric gathered at her waist before cascading to the ground. Two slits ran up the front of her legs, showcasing the high heels with straps that wrapped all the way up her calves, mimicking the top of her dress.
“That’s no way to greet your mate,” she said, smiling at his slack-jawed expression.
“Fuck.”
He made it to her in three strides and didn’t hesitate before threading his hands into her hair and slamming his mouth to hers, molding his body against her. He groaned into her mouth.
“That’s more like it,” she whispered, her voice husky. She pulled away so he could see the back, but he didn’t let her go far. He gripped the back of her neck roughly and spun her around so he could kiss her again.
“If you expect me to let you leave this room looking like this, you overestimate the control I have over myself,” he growled.
“Let me?” she said, raising a brow.
“How about we skip this coronation and you let me show you what it means to be my queen,” he said, running a hand down her leg to her knee, hitching it around his waist.
“I think I have a pretty good idea,” Solveig said on an exhale.
“A pretty good idea is not sufficient for me,” he whispered into her ear, his hand trailing up the outside of her thigh.
She matched his husky tone. “What do you have in mind?” He must not have been coy with how much the idea intrigued him because she quickly amended, “We’re not actually going to skip the coronation, West, I’m just curious.”
A wicked smile curled his lips. “I could tell you, but I’d rather show you.”
He scooped her up in his arms and laid her carefully on the bed so as to not wreck her hair and dress.
“You know, it would be a lot better if I could use everything I have at my disposal.” His eyes fell, almost mournfully, to the top button of his pants. Solveig laughed.
“Fifty-seven days, and not a minute sooner,” she reminded playfully. He dropped his head between her breasts, his beard scraping her skin.
“I’ll just have to make do I guess,” he said.
He set her on her feet and took her hand in his, placing a finger to his lips before placing it on hers when she opened her mouth to protest. Fire ignited deep in his stomach when she flicked her tongue out to lick his finger before wrapping her lips around it and sucking gently.
“Fuck,” he said on a shudder. Images of her mouth wrapped around other areas of his body intruded his mind, taking over his senses. She nipped his finger playfully.
They slipped out of their rooms and tiptoed down the hall.
Where are we going? she asked.
You’ll see.
I hate surprises.
You’ll like this one.
Solveig squeezed his hand harder than necessary, delighting at the wince he tried to hide. She smiled to herself, satisfied.
He led them down the empty corridor of their rooms. North insisted on stationing guards there, but she and Westley would hear none of it. The compromise was guards at the end of the corridor instead of right outside or even inside their rooms.
Little did the soon-to-be queen know that young Westley had mapped out all the palace’s secret passageways—even creating new ones—for centuries. There were two in the hallway of their rooms, and they slipped through one before their guards could see.
Once they were in the dark stone passageway, Westley picked up speed, no longer caring about stealth. His Fae eyesight guided them through the twists and turns. In the dark corridor, Solveig could only make out his form, shrouded in shadows as he was.
They’d been down the secret hallway a few times before but not when it was this dark, the early light of the sun not strong enough to penetrate the shadows. Solveig trailed behind him, her footsteps slowing as her breathing became heavier.
She stopped abruptly, removing her hand from his, dropping her palms to her knees as she bent over.
This is not the cave, she told herself. This is not the cave. Westley is my mate.
His slow footsteps approached. Sol?
I need a minute, she said.
What happened? I just felt a wave of—
Fear, she finished the sentence for him.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him flinch. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She was trapped, trapped in the darkness.
Trapped in the silence of suffering.
“General Solveig Tordottir,” Westley said loudly, with authority, as he knelt in front of her. “Elska, you are not trapped. You got out,” he told her firmly.
I got out I got out I got out.
“Yes, you did,” he answered her out loud. “Deep breaths.”
This was not the first time he’d been there to calm her down. Though the acknowledgement of the bond helped and the knowledge that he’d helped her escape was comforting, the nightmares still came. They were infrequent, but never fully gone.
She would wake in a cold sweat with Westley wrapped around her, wanting to scream but unable to, still fearful of her own voice.
The first time it happened he woke in a panic, searching for the threat to her, but when he’d realized her fear was because of him, his wave of guilt and shame hit her hard before he could cut it off.
It had taken some coaxing, but she’d finally been able to open up in the darkness. They’d spoken at length about the cave, and Westley had taken every accusation, every painful moment she’d shared in stride.
In turn, he’d shared his own experience. What had been happening outside the cave. How he’d had to keep his temper in check around Booth, had to listen to Noren and Viggo discuss plans for her. He’d grown impartial towards Brenna and had stopped sharing her bed.
She’d bristled at that, and he had tossed her a knowing smirk. She had traced the tattoo on his arm, the marks of her screams as he apologized and swore to protect her. There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in her being that he meant every word.
Solveig knew that if her fear became too great and she asked right now, as she panicked in the passageway, that he would leave her alone. He would leave and bring Gerrie if that’s what she needed. He’d done it before without hesitation.
But it was getting easier as time passed, as their bond grew. She took a few more deep breaths. One. Two. Three.
She stood tall, meeting his gaze. He’d made the mistake only once of showing her pity, and had the scar on his chest to prove that she didn’t want it. The cave had forged her, it had forged them, and she would not be pitied, especially by him.
Can I hold you? he asked.
Solveig nodded, and his arms immediately enveloped her, the smell of rain and sea smothering her senses.
The clothes she was given in the cave flashed before her eyes—his clothes. His spine ramrod straight as he guarded her.
She breathed in his scent, conjuring instead the memory of the first time he’d come to her tent to calm her nightmares. To last night, which he’d spent curled around her, whispering apologies and love when he thought she was sleeping.
A tear leaked from her eye and dropped onto his still bare chest. He pulled away to look her in the eyes, wiping away the droplet with his thumb.
Do you still want to see where I’m taking you, or do you want to go back to our room? he asked.
Solveig only hesitated a moment before saying, “Let’s see what you have planned, Prince.”