Solveig surprised him by doing exactly as he asked without any snarky remarks. With the adjustments he suggested, she loaded her bow and let the second arrow go. It stuck in the tree this time, even if it was barely on the edge. The slight tug of her lips made his heart race as a warm sensation flooded through him.
On the next try, he made her wait before releasing the arrow. He circled her, daring her with his eyes to shoot him when he stood in front of her loaded weapon. She smiled wickedly, flexing the string, but remained still while he assessed her. When he stood behind her, the muscles tightened on the back of her neck. Westley fought the urge to soothe them.
After a few more suggestions, she reset and this time her arrow landed closer to the centre of the tree. For the next arrow she nocked, he stepped closer, tugging on her arm to bring her elbow down.
That one touch lit up his entire body. His magic became hyper aware of her proximity, so he took a step back. This arrow went way off target. In his haste to step away from her, she’d stumbled, losing her footing. He stepped right back to her, almost on instinct.
“Steady,” he whispered. Goosebumps sprouted on her slender neck at the touch of his warm breath. “Nothing else in the world matters right now but you and your target,” he said softly.
Tension radiated from her body with him so close, and he desperately wanted to ease it. Maybe he would make it worse though. Sometimes she seemed so at ease with him, and other times she held herself back.
He laid a hand on her hip to guide her into the right position. The move brought their bodies almost flush, and her breath hitched. His other hand went to her arm and adjusted her elbow again before sliding towards her hand.
His large hand swallowed hers as he reshaped her grip, but her very essence enveloped him.
“Breathe, Solveig.” It was a reminder to himself as well. She let out a slow exhale. The wind whistled gently through the trees, surrounding them. The quiet forest became a world where they were just Westley and Solveig, no wars, no political bullshit, no godsdamned mission stood between them.
“Good. Now feel the strength of your arm. Let your body memorize this stance,” he whispered into the shell of her ear.
She took another breath and so did he, inhaling her stormy scent. Westley stayed where he was this time, even as that now familiar current of electricity passed between them. Leaning into her back, the side of his face grazed the top of her head.
Her body stiffened before relaxing into him, bringing her posture to the perfect position.
“This, Solveig, is how your body should feel.” Westley’s heart rate quickened. “Move with your bow,” he murmured, “and let it go.”
She only paused for half a second before the arrow went flying through the forest. It split an arrow he had shot at that same tree right down the centre. He let out a low whistle.
“There’s my general.”
He waited for her to move away. When she didn’t, he handed her another arrow from his quiver and she reset. Again and again, they went on that way, moving together as she shot arrow after arrow.
When she aimed at different trees, he helped guide her body to new angles. Westley was gluttonous as he took every touch she allowed. He was drunk on her scent, her small sighs, her curses of frustration. His body had never been more alive.
Though her back was pressed against his chest, he kept his lower half angled away so she couldn’t feel the evidence of what she was doing to him. She reached down to her quiver for another arrow but came up short. He went to hand her one from his, but it was empty too.
“If you want to continue, we’ll have to go collect the ones that you didn’t destroy,” he said quietly, hoping she couldn’t hear the hint of regret in his voice. He didn’t want to move.
“Okay,” was all she said before taking a breath and stepping away from him. He despised her loss immediately and instinctively reached out his hand to gently grab her arm. She looked up at him with those deep copper eyes, searching his.
“Solveig, I . . .”
A loud sound crashed through the forest, cutting him off. The Vanir male he’d seen talking to Solveig in the council tent burst into the clearing. The moment in time they’d carved out was over. Solveig’s entiredemeanour changed as she squared her shoulders and hardened her face. Westley responded immediately, scanning for threats.
“Sten, what is it? What’s wrong?” Solveig asked, apprehension filling her tone.
“You have to come quick,” the young male said through panting breaths. “It’s Latham.”
“What about Latham?” Solveig pressed.
Is she concerned for him?
“Tell us what happened, witch,” Westley ordered, voice brutal and commanding. Solveig elbowed him in the ribs as the lad named Sten stared back with fear.
“It’s ... He’s ... General, he’s heading back to the mortal village to attack!” he finally got out.
Solveig straightened immediately, fury overtaking every emotion on her face before she whipped around and grabbed her bow. Without another word, she was off running through the forest with Westley right on her tail, apparently willing not only to do whatever she asked of him but also to follow her without question.
He was well and truly screwed.
