The buzzing under her skin intensified. There was only one way to test her theory—though deep down she knew she was right. The truth of it rattled her entire being. Sten was right to escape when he had.
“There are no objections, Your Majesties,” she said to her mothers, willing them to break their facade. “I believe we may move forward with our union with the full support of the Trifold.” She turned a dazzling smile on Steffen, who stared in delighted surprise.
The prince squirmed in his seat. Even with her attention elsewhere, every cell of her being was focused on him.
“I’m surprised by your willingness, Solveig,” Alvida said to her. “You never showed interest in marriage before.”
“You are correct. There was never a strong enough reason to compel me before now,” she answered smoothly.
“An arranged marriage?” the Idavoll queen challenged.
“Many arranged marriages become love matches. I have no doubt mine and Steffen’s will be the same,” she assured the queen.
North placed a hand on Westley’s knee—it was bouncing up and down, his face cold and hard. The glare he levelled at Steffen promised death. Solveig’s heart leapt at the violence, urging her forward.
She swept her gaze up and down Steffen’s form. “At the very least, it will certainly be fun to make an heir.”
The Idavoll king and queen let out cries of protest at her brazenness. Westley looked ready to pounce—Solveig was impressed at his restraint.
“And you are set to make their offspring Asgard’s heir?” Erik managed to ask.
“Certainly,” Aelfsi answered.
Steffen gripped her hand, staring at the prince with a raised brow, as if daring him to say something. Vali smothered a smile. North and Easta shared a look.
They all knew.
It took a massive amount of effort to keep her voice steady when she said, “We are two powerful beings. The coupling is sure to result in a strong Fae.”
King Erik cleared his throat at her insinuation. “Asgard can’t afford to be weakened, and an arranged marriage, even one that may grow into a love match, may not be the strongest way to produce an heir.”
Solveig turned to the king, grateful he’d played in her hands. Spinning the last thread of her web, she laid her trap.
“While an arranged marriage is certainly not the strongest union, it is our hope that once magic is restored, a mating bond will be formed. He, my chosen Hjarta, and I, his blessed Thiramin. We will be mates.”
As soon as the words left her lips, Westley shot to his feet with a snarl so fearsome, the walls reverberated with the sound. Everyone but Solveig flinched back.
Her mate glared at her.
He’dtried,hereallyhad.
Solveig’s mood had shifted, putting him on high alert. She was up to something. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought she would suggest taking someone else as her mate.
Not that she’d be able to. She had a mate, and it was not the smug Elven prince.
Westley could tolerate watching her get married ... probably. He could face a world where she was bedding another male. If that’s what she wanted, he could do that for her. He could step aside and let her be happy.
But he would be damned to Hel if he had to watch her try to mate with another. It didn’t matter what kind of repercussions he’d face—he’d tear that prince’s throat out if he dared to call her his mate.
She was Westley’s mate, and he belonged to her. There could be no other for either of them.
He stood on shaking legs, hands braced on the table, glaring at Solveig.
She’d baited him into this, which meant she knew. Had she just figured it out? That would explain her change in mood.
Solveig cocked a brow and he growled low again, though not out of rage this time. Her eyes lit with energy, and the swift change in her scent—lust and anger—filled his nostrils.
“What ever is going on, Westley?” his mother asked him. She hated causing a scene, and this was about to be one. But he ignored her, his attention solely on the blasted witch who held his soul in her cruel hands.
