He had to stay that way to her. As soon as she thought of him as anything else, it would be over for her. His title was her last line of defence.
As she made her way to the dining hall, her good mood vanished as quickly as it had come.
Gerrie was gone. Latham had led their people into slaughter. She was still having nightmares of the cave. The queens had summoned her. This wouldn’t be her home much longer.
A wave of sadness washed over her, and she slowed her pace. Her people went about their business oblivious to her inner turmoil.
Stopping abruptly in the middle of a row of tents, she took in the unfamiliar atmosphere.
Something had changed. She’d been so caught up in her own healing that she hadn’t realized there was something different in the air. A current of tension wove around her body, making her jaw clench.
Home was no longer a safe place with routine and predictability—it didn’t fit anymore. She watched her people tend to their daily responsibilities, noticing small things like the lack of laughter and leisure. There was no dallying, no stopping to chat. They kept their heads down and unbroken focus on their tasks.
Was it Latham? Or was it the result of the upheaval her absence had caused?
After over a century of living in a camp rather than a proper town, her people must be exhausted.
Maybe there was truth in what Latham had said. She’d gotten complacent. She’d never sabotaged any missions—she was not a traitor—but maybe she’d taken comfort in certain aspects of her routine and her position.
She had fought for their freedom, but somewhere along the way, the fight had become the focus instead of liberation.
What her people needed were results, and she was going to do whatever she could to deliver. That current through the air waschange.
Something big was on the horizon, she could almost taste it. With renewed purpose, she again started walking towards the dining hall for fuel. She was going to need it if her last few weeks in the Southern Wilds would be spent training with the prince.
Goddess help her.
“WhyisSolveignothere?” Conalle leaned over to whisper in his ear.
The lord had been anxiously awaiting their return and demanded to know every detail of what happened. Westley told him all, only leaving out the fact that somehow, he and Solveig could communicate without words. It must have something to do with their magic.
So far, he didn’t know if anyone else’s lingered beneath their skin.
Westley had looked for Solveig when they entered the Vault, but he’d assumed she was still bathing. He wasn’t lying when he said she stank. They all stank when they returned from battle covered in gods knew what.
What bothered him more was that she had lost a lot of blood, and the scent of it drove him wild. Even as she stood there, alive and well, arguing with him, the scent of her blood outside her body made his magic overbearing. It constantly reached for the threat, urging him to protect, conquer.
If she didn’t get cleaned up, there was no way they’d be able to train together later. He had a hard enough time focusing in her presence as it was—no need to add her blood to the mix.
His sharp canines ached at the thought, the impulse to taste her overwhelming his senses.
“West?” Conalle nudged him out of his trance and he swallowed hard, shoving the unnerving craving he had for the Vanir general to the back of his mind.
“No idea why she’s not here. She should be.”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Noren interjected.
“Why not?” Conalle asked indignantly.
Noren gave Westley a knowing look that flooded his stomach with unease. He both hated and appreciated that Noren was here to keep him on track.
“Why are you two always looking at each other like that? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were secret lovers. But since all our dear prince has done since he arrived is trail after our sassy general like a lovesick puppy, I think it’s something else.”
Westley let out a laugh, hoping they couldn’t tell it was forced. He was saved from trying to explain by Latham clearing his throat. Ten males, including Maddock, stood in a circle around a single chair placed in the middle of the room. They quieted.
“Bring in the prisoner,” Latham ordered. Two guards left and soon returned with the mortal they’d taken from the village. He had a sack over his head and his feet and hands were bound with rope.
