“Prick.”
As they glared at each other, a low whistle came from behind them.
They sprang apart, and for some reason, heat climbed Solveig’s neck like they’d been caught with their pants down. An image of the prince without pants skittered through her mind, and she tried to bury it as quickly as it had surfaced.
“Is this how you are spending your afternoons? Shouting at each other like two animals in heat?”
“What the fuck do you want, Conalle?” the prince snarled at his friend, releasing Solveig’s hand when she yanked it back.
He stepped away from her, and Solveig didn’t want to think about the disappointment that threatened her resolve. She pushed it down with all her other emotions, trying to remember every reason she needed to keep the prince behind her walls.
The list was dwindling.
Conalle put his hands up in a show of peace. “Easy there, lad. I come waving a white flag.” His head bounced between them in delight. “Maybe you two should do the deed and get rid of this tension between you. It might make everyone a little ... calmer,” he said with a pointed look at Westley, whose stance could only be described as feral.
He flashed his teeth, canines lengthening, and Conalle took a step back, his hands still raised.
“What do you want, Conalle?” Solveig’s voice broke through the fog in Westley’s mind.
“I thought you might want to know the Lionhead has requested to see you,” he told her.
Her demeanour changed immediately from ferocious to apprehensive. Westley’s first instinct was to protect her from going to thedungeon. She sat outside the door and listened every morning, she shouldn’t have to go inside as well.
It was why she’d been particularly vicious towards him lately. He truly had not minded until she’d shot him on purpose today—though he supposed he had been kind of a dick to her.
Still, did that mean he deserved an arrow through the ankle? His leg still throbbed as his flesh slowly knit itself back together.
“Now?” Solveig asked.
“Yes, he said, and I quote, ‘I’d like to speak to the only competent one around here.’” Conalle chuckled as he delivered the message.
“Very well,” Solveig said, gathering her things. Westley did the same and she stopped. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“What does it look like? I’m coming with you,” he said, genuinely confused.
“Why? Stay here and train—I don’t need you.”
Her words were not sharp, but they stung him nonetheless.
“I know you don’t need me but I figured I’d be there for, I don’t know, moral support,” he said with a shrug. She continued to stare at him.
He didn’t want her going alone. Her nightmares were already bad enough—it would be worse if she went to see the prisoner and something went wrong. He lived through her screams every night. That was probably why he had been a dick this morning. He wasn’t getting very much sleep.
Every night he leapt out of bed, his magic responding to her distress, not knowing what to do. He wanted to go to her, but he doubted she wanted him with her. His resolve weakened with every piercing cry.
“Fine,” was all she said.
Westley supposed that was about as close as she would ever get to asking for his help. They packed up and rode back together, unsaddlingtheir horses and sending them to the pasture to let loose. When he opened his mouth, she put up her hand.
“Whatever you are about to say, just don’t.”
“You have no idea what I was about to say. Maybe I was going to apologize for being a dick today.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Were you?”
“No.” He smirked and she rolled her eyes. “But for what it’s worth, I am sorry. I know you’re going through a lot—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked sharply, cutting him off.
