“Solveig . . . a nightmare . . . okay.”
She could only hear bits and pieces through the pounding in her ears and her heavy breathing. “That’s it. Deep breaths.”
The voice was soothing, so at odds with the menacing figure that haunted her. She blinked again and he moved away, the weight on her body shifting. A flare of light ignited as he struck a match to light a lantern. It cast a soft glow over his face, highlighting his strong features.
She let out a long, slow breath.
The prince. It was the prince. He was holding her to the bed, probably to stop her thrashing. The dripping was from his hair. Her eyes adjusted and she forced herself to focus on him. To reorganize her thoughts. His bare chest was the first thing she catalogued.
She’d seen him shirtless the first morning after his arrival but had been trying not to look too closely. Now that she was up close, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. He was a masterpiece.
Scars and tattoos whorled over tanned skin that pulled taut over flexed muscles. When she let her body calm, he immediately responded. He relaxed, not having to use as much force to keep her in place.
Her eyes betrayed her, her gaze running past the trail of muscles on his stomach, following the line of dark hair and tempting shape between his hips.
She tried not to think of how close his body was to pressing against hers—fear still coursing through her blood. Her eyes dragged back up to meet his darkening green gaze.
He stared at her with such intensity she still wasn’t sure whether she was dreaming. But his hair continued to drip, and the moisture from the rest of his body seeped into her, even though he was holding himself above her.
His eyes were locked onto hers, their breaths keeping pace together. Solveig let the cool droplets soothe her skin, her magic responding to both the prince’s nearness and the calming effects of the water. It was too much for her senses, the nightmares and waking overlapping, so she closed her eyes, hands gripping the furs on her bed.
She was safe. She got out. Fear—the prince, she corrected—was here. The prince was here. Her magic stirred under her skin, flaring where his strong hands still gripped her shoulders.
“Solveig?” he whispered.
It was a shock to hear him say her name. It rolled off his tongue like a caress, and she hated that she liked the sound of it. She opened her eyes and met his stare.
She didn’t know what he saw crossing her face, but he loosened his grip and slowly moved away, situating himself on the edge of the bed. Solveig missed the warmth immediately.
He seemed to be struggling with indecision. Whether he should stay or go. Solveig didn’t know what she wanted either. Except when he moved to leave, she panicked and grabbed his arm, shifting to a seated position behind him.
They both jerked at the force of her hold and at the spark that lit up the space between them.
“What is that?” he whispered, gesturing to where her hand still held his arm. She pulled it away.
“I don’t know.”
“Does that happen with everyone you touch?” he asked, sounding unsure if he wanted the answer.
She hesitated. She didn’t know if she could trust him or not. He was the Prince of Idavoll. She had overheard his conversation with Latham and Trella and knew he was trying to find a traitor among her people.Before she could reply, he reached a hand towards her face, hesitating in the air before changing his mind and dropping it to his lap.
Like he could read her mind, he continued, “I’m not the prince right now. Just Westley. Just a ... friend.” He smiled softly.
Friend. That wasn’t the right word. There was no word for what they were.
“No,” Solveig said quietly. “It hasn’t happened with anyone else.”
He nodded slowly, his face unreadable. “Do you have access to your magic?”
“Do you?” she challenged, throwing the question back to him.
They stared at each other, neither willing nor able to answer. Her magic was there in some capacity, but she couldn’t use it.
He shocked her by answering with her own thoughts. “No, I don’t. But I feel it sometimes.” It was a trust offering. He was giving her this piece of him.
“Why tell me this?” she asked, voice still hoarse from screaming.
His shoulders lifted, staring at his clasped hands, like he was trying not to touch her again. “Because I’m just Westley. And I thought that maybe you could just be Solveig tonight. Not a general, just ...”
