Solveig helped him to his feet, flinching softly as she did so. His instincts roared at him to find the pain and attend to her, but he caught himself before he did something stupid. Like scoop her into his arms and fuss over every wound. She was showing off her strength—pointing out her injuries would not be helpful.
This witch was going to be the death of him.
They realized at the same time that they were still holding hands, and she stepped away first. Westley bristled at her absence and craved to reach out to her again, having to curl his hand into a fist to stop himself. He wanted to feel more of her skin. All of it.
But that thought was pointless—he would never touch her like that. He couldn’t.
She opened her mouth to say something when Quillon came over to greet them.
“Well fought, my friends! Well fought indeed!” He clapped his hands together, sharing a meaningful look with Solveig.
“Thank you, Jarl Bjornson,” Solveig said with a slight bow of her head.
“I don’t think we’ve seen such a skilled pair since ... well, since never!”
“You flatter us, Quillon,” she said, but Westley’s mind had snagged on the wordus. “Surely when Gerrie and I spar we are equally as skillful.”
Quillon tried and failed to hide his answering smile. “With all due respect, General Tordottir, Gerrie is much more skilled than you. When you two fight, it is not an equal match.” Solveig put a hand to her chest, pretend shock on her face.
“Jarl Bjornson, you wound me!”
The clan leader chuckled in return and Solveig beamed at him. Westley watched the exchange with fascination. He’d never seen Solveig’s playful side like this. He may have caught glimpses of it now and again but never without restraint.
His amusement vanished as he wondered if this was how she’d been before her capture. His thoughts festered, churning his insides with every second he dwelled on it. He was tempting the gods, begging for disaster, by sticking around.
“Well fought, General. If you’ll excuse me.” The two glanced up in confusion at his sudden dismissal, and he withdrew quickly before either could object.
He could not let her see the rage building inside him at what was done to her. When he heard the stories, rumours spoken in hushed tones about what she’d endured, he tried to remain impartial. Not that the Vanir knew what had happened—it didn’t sound like Solveig opened up to many about it.
But the whispers circulated nonetheless, her haunted eyes confirming them.
With each step away from her, his resolve to complete his mission and get home grew. His parents, the king and queen of his realm, were counting on him. Their people suffered. Magic had been what kept their lands fruitful and hospitable. But without it, brutal winters scourged the forest, leaving them in a constant state of ice and snow for far too many decades.
He couldn’t afford to be distracted or led astray by this alluring warrior with her invisible battles and electric spirit.
As the physical distance between them grew the farther away he got, the space between their souls widened, and he refused to admit how much he hated it.
Withmixedemotions,Solveigwatched the prince retreat, his shoulders hunched like he carried the weight of the world. She supposed as a royal he had heavy responsibilities. Though she’d been brought up by the queens of Asgard, she’d never experienced the full weight of the crown. She had no intention of being their successor, and they knew it well.
But her responsibilities as their general weighed her down. The sheer amount of people she was responsible for, the fight for their magic, not to mention trying very hard not to start an internal war with the Trifold by exposing Idavoll for the traitors they were.
With her emotions haywire, she couldn’t necessarily trust herself not to do something rash and stupid. Like confront the prince.
Why was he here? To punish her more for her failings? There had to be another purpose, other than to sort out their leadership issue.
Idavoll was hiding something, and she didn’t know what it was yet, but she was determined to find out. And the prince’s involvement,however deep, could not have the power to derail her. She wouldn’t allow it.
The feel of him pressed into her lingered on every inch of her body. The hunger in his eyes hadn’t helped her own dangerous and ill-timed desire. Surprisingly, she’d only had a brief flutter of panic at being on her back, until he brought his mouth close to her ear. Her heart had sped up for an entirely different reason.
She was shaken from her thoughts of the prince when Quillon cleared his throat, bringing her attention back to him.
All the humour had left his face, and Solveig mourned the loss of it. She’d felt lighter in the past thirty minutes than she had in months, and it was likely that it would not happen again any time soon.
“It was a good move, to spar like that with Prince Westley,” he said.
“But?”
“It may be too little, too late.” Dread pooled in Solveig’s stomach, erasing the last of her good mood. “While the fight will surely be viewed in your favour, I’m not sure it will be enough to sway the majority.”
