With only a little slack between his ankles, he could barely shuffle as they dragged him along. The guards sat the man in the chair and began securing him with more ropes. Once he was fastened tightly, they removed the sack.
The Lionhead didn’t flinch at the sudden burst of light in his vision. Westley was shocked to see he appeared rather comfortable. This man was either too foolish to be frightened or knew something they didn’t.
Westley would bet his fortune it was the latter.
“Welcome to the Southern Wilds,” Latham started, his tone sickly sweet with not an ounce of sincerity. “We have a fun nickname for you. We call you the Lionhead. I’m sure you can imagine why.” He gestured to the man’s face with a smirk, probably hoping he’d take offence. But the mortal just inclined his head and smiled through the gag.
“Tell me something, human, will you bleed if I try to cut you?” Latham asked. When the mortal said nothing, Latham continued. “Interesting magic you seem to possess. For your own sake, I hope it holds strong here.” He stepped towards the Lionhead. “Shall we test my theory?”
The mortal stared intently at Latham, showing no reaction, let alone fear, at Latham’s words. That only infuriated Latham, all pretence of politeness vanishing from his face in an instant.
“Let me make one thing clear,mortal.” He spat the word like it tasted foul in his mouth. “There is no one in this entire realm who will save you. No saviour, no rescuer, and certainly none of the gods—” He was cut off by a banging sound.
Westley had to hide his smile at her timing, though unease curdled in his chest. Solveig sauntered through the wide-open door and into the dungeon like she had no care in the world. He knew well enough now that this was not a mask—she was learning to remain unshaken in the face of her nightmares.
There was a brief tremble of her hand as it rested on the hammer she carried on her belt. He’d been meaning to ask her about it. No one else noticed, too preoccupied with the deadly sword she brandished casuallyin front of her. She used it to gesture around the room, her hair still wet from her bath.
“What do we have here?” she asked casually. As she reached their group, all but him, Noren, and Conalle took a step back from her. Westley relished the playful menace in her eyes. It was an effort to keep a straight face.
“Looks like you forgot to invite me to the party.” She made atsksound with her tongue a couple of times before she came to stand in front of Latham. “An unintentional oversight, I’m sure.” The smile on her face was a promise of violence. Latham flinched away as her smile grew wider.
“You are not in charge here anymore, Tordottir, you weren’t invited because we have no need of you,” Maddock said from his place at Latham’s side.
That was bullshit and everyone in the room knew it. Though she may not have her title, she carried the respect of the clan and had led them for so long that she damn well deserved to be in this room. “Solveig. I thought that you might not want ...” Latham started, but Solveig’s hand flew up to cup his cheek, cutting him off, and leaned in close.
Latham’s eyes widened in shock at the unexpected contact. That simple touch took control of Latham’s entire body and he softened under her. Poor bastard.
“Shhh, Latham. No need to lie,” Solveig whispered pleasantly, sending chills all over Westley’s body. “But if you think for one minute that you can leave me out of this”—her fingers gripped his face as she pulled him closer to whisper in his ear so none but the Fae could hear her—“I will cut off your balls and serve them to you for breakfast.” A snort came from Noren, who unsuccessfully tried to cover it with a cough.
Solveig pulled away slightly so she could look Latham in the eye, their faces close.
All the humour disappeared from her features as she slid her hand down Latham’s face to his throat and flexed her hand, squeezing a fraction. A quick flicker of light flashed in her eyes that Latham must’ve seen too. Perhaps a shock went through his neck. All the blood drained from his face at her warning, and he stood frozen on the spot.
Just as quickly as it had dropped, her smile was back in place. She released his neck, gently patting his cheek.
“That’s a good lad.”
Then she deliberately turned her back on him, leaving him rooted to the ground. Westley had to give him credit—even as it took him a moment to shake off the fear, Latham hadn’t wet himself. A grand feat indeed.
“Where were we?” Solveig asked the group.
She caught Westley’s eye and winked at him. Shewinkedat him. He felt as shocked as Latham looked, eyes going wide and mouth slackening. He snapped out of it when Conalle chuckled beside him.
“It’s nice to see she’s got some of her spirit back,” Conalle whispered. Westley swallowed hard.
“Always so dramatic, Tordottir,” Maddock said, his arms folded across his chest.
“We were just, uh, getting ready to question him,” one of the guards said from behind Latham, who was still trying to recover. Solveig nodded.
“You may want to remove his gag. That way if he’s feeling particularly chatty, he’ll be able to speak.”
The guards who’d brought in the Lionhead quickly removed the cloth bunched in the mortal’s mouth. The man took a deep breath, maintaining his casual demeanour as Solveig assessed him.
“My name is Solveig Tordottir. I sincerely hope you have an inclination for self-preservation, I do not want this to get ugly,” she said calmly,surprising Westley by using the mortal’s common tongue. “What is your name?”
“John Davis, at your service,” he said, his mortal accent twanging.
“Welcome to Vanaheim, John Davis. Although I suppose since we took you from the village you built on our lands, you have been here for a while.”
