Westley and the general moved at the same time, but Westley was quicker.
The dagger she still held sliced through the air just as Westley grabbed her around the middle, throwing her over his shoulder, knocking her aim off balance. The dagger embedded itself in the wood behind Latham’s head instead of his throat, where it would’ve struck had her aim been true.
She was only stunned for a moment before she struggled against him.
He held her tightly. As much as he wanted to see her kill this slimy cockroach, it would not bode well for them in the long run. He’d moved on instinct to stop her, and now her body was pressed all over him, his magic roaring in his blood.
With the witch still draped over his shoulder, he glanced at Latham. The captain looked as bewildered as everyone else at the turn of events.
“If you ever speak to her or about her in that way again, I will tear your body into so many pieces there will be nothing left to burn. Your rotten soul will not even be fit for Helheim,” Westley whispered, a dangerous growl escaping his lips.
The blood completely drained from Latham’s face and the Vanir male said nothing.
Satisfied, Westley stalked away, taking the general with him. She hadn’t exactly relaxed into him, but she was no longer fighting, probably realizing she wouldn’t be able to break his hold.
“Put me down, Prince,” she demanded once they were far enough from the crowd.
Westley carried her away from the dining hall, towards the stables. There was a small forest behind the building, private enough that they’d be shielded from prying eyes.
“Not yet, General. I just need—” But he was cut off by a stabbing pain in his back.
He yelped and loosened his hold, giving her the opportunity to wrench herself off him. Misjudging the height, she lost her balance and ended up flat on her back.
Westley reached behind, wincing as pain lanced through his muscles. He pulled out the dagger embedded between his ribs, struggling to pull in a breath—she’d managed to puncture one of his lungs.
“You. Stabbed. Me,” he gasped, standing over her.
“You wouldn’t put me down,” she said, shrugging.
Westley groaned. “That hurt.”
“Good.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she scooted back and got to her feet.
He leaned forward to brace himself on his knees and his skin started to stitch itself together. She watched him warily as he choked on his breath. Organs took longer to heal than flesh wounds, especially without access to his magic. Minutes ticked by like hours as his body slowly healed the would-be fatal wound.
The chirping of birds and distant horses neighing filled the silence.
“Aren’t you . . . going . . . to finish . . . the . . . job?” he wheezed between painful breaths.
“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Could have . . . fooled . . . me.”
The sound of her quiet chuckle had him hiding his smile. She watched in silence for the next half hour as his body slowly repaired itself.
A huge breath of relief filled his lungs when they finally healed and the sharp pain dwindled to a dull ache. Without the pain to focus on,he registered her stance, standing a few feet away from him. He took a step forward and she retreated a step back. He didn’t want to admit how much he hated the action. She was scared of him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her.
“I stabbed you.”
“I’m aware.” She didn’t respond or relax her defensive position. “I’m still not going to hurt you,” he continued.
“Why not?” she asked casually, like they were discussing the weather.
“Because you stabbed me in retaliation for me grabbing you. In my mind, we’re even.”
Her eyes flashed. “We’re not even close to even.”
