She would speak to her mothers about sending more aid from Asgard.
Westley kissed her any chance he got—any time she was not in conversation with another, his mouth found hers. He whispered things into her ear and mind that made her blush.
As a four-hundred-and-twenty-six-year-old war general, it took a lot to elicit that kind of reaction.
Somehow, he managed.
“Just think”—his breath tickled her ear—“soon we’ll be able to sneak to our room and I can tear that horrible dress right off you, bend you over the end of the bed, and sink so deep inside you that you won’t even remember your own name ... That is, if you could take all of me.” His whispered voice was husky and deep, sending chills down her spine and blood throbbingbetween her legs.
He scraped her ear with his teeth and she leaned back into him.
Two could play at that game.
She swung her legs over his, making sure to rub against the bulge in his pants. He took it one step further. He gripped her waist and brought her to sit on his lap, their guests be damned. She grazed her nose up the column of his neck.
“Now what fun would doing that in our room be? You’re Fae, I know the kinds of parties your lot have once the king and queen are away. I’ve been to a few of them myself.” Westley growled as she ground against the hard length of his cock. “You could bend me over this table right now and start the real party,” she whispered.
“Fuck, Solveig. If I wasn’t a greedy asshole I’d let everyone see how pretty you’d moan for me.” His hand searched her legs, though he couldn’t get under all the swaths of fabric.
The cool feel of his magic compensated for the lack of accessible skin. His magic reached the tops of her thighs, and she inhaled. He swallowed the sound as he claimed her mouth.
You’re lucky I want to keep you all to myself.
That’s a pity. I would’ve broken my eighty-nine-day rule if you were up for it.
Fuck you.
She laughed, cutting off their kiss. When they broke apart, Solveig still atop Westley’s lap, they noticed the room had gone quiet and a majority of the table were staring at them—a mixture of humour, hunger, and horror plastered on their faces.
“Can you blame me?” Westley joked, bringing her back into a deep kiss as the tension broke.
Smooth, Solveig told him.
Thank you.
Westley reluctantly placed Solveig back onto her chair. He got to his feet, clinking his glass.
“As you can see, it’s time for the evening to end,” he said in his most princely voice. Laughs skittered around the table. “Thank you all for coming. I thought the gods had not given me a mate—that my soul was broken, not worthy to be bound to another. So I locked my heart away. No matter how many times someone tried to break it, I kept it strong. I was invincible. And then I met Solveig.”
Emotion brimmed in his eyes. “Take care of my heart,elska. It belongs to you,” he said only to her. He raised his glass, and the rest of their guests followed suit, drinking to the happy couple and the beautiful words.
Elska.
His love, his heart, his soul. They shared an intense look, full of hope and promise.
And then the coughing began.
Westley’sheadwhippedinthe direction of the horrific sound of someone choking. For a moment, no one moved. Everyone was frozen with shock. The king and queen, his parents, coughed, wheezing and gasping for air.
Everything happened all at once.
His parents clutched their throats, their eyes wide with panic.
The highborn families jumped up in terror and fled the room, spitting out their wine in the process.
Guards began shouting orders. Servants were captured.
North and Easta got to their parents just in time to break their falls as they tumbled from their chairs.
