“If I thought Latham was a traitor and not a naive soldier who made horrible choices, I would execute him right here, right now.” Solveig’s hand twitched in her pocket.
“You would do that to him? To someone you loved?”
She let Trella see the ruthlessness in her eyes, the vision of a head rolling across the grass swimming in her vision when she answered with a resounding, “Yes.”
Trella swallowed hard.
“Is that all?”
She hesitated like she wasn’t done, but Solveig was finished. Not waiting for the witch to say anything else, she turned on her heel and ducked under the canvas flaps of her tent.
“Seriously?” Solveig asked as soon as she entered.
Westley glanced up. He stood over a wash basin, his black hair damp and clean, chest bare as he scrubbed his body. Loose pants hung low on his hips, exposing the trail of hair that led directly to ... Solveig absolutely did not look down. For long.
“Sorry, I’ll be done in a minute.”
Solveig blinked a few times, clearing the fog from her thoughts, and waved her hand in dismissal. “Please, take your time, I like a good show,” she said, taking her boots off and collapsingonto the bed.
Westley laughed and continued to clean his chest, wiping away the accumulated dirt and blood. He had a new scar on his stomach from the arrow the mortal had injured him with, and Solveig traced the line with her eyes.
Her body heated as she followed the dips of his torso, lingering on the sight of the wolf that snaked its way over his chest and down his arm. It was an intricate tattoo, lines and dots and swirls. Like it had recently been added to, some marks were darker than others, as though they were etched in after the original outline.
“Do you not have a wash basin in your tent?” she asked groggily from the bed, unable to fight the sleep that tugged at her eyes.
“This is my tent,” he said, surprised.
Her eyes flashed open. “This ismytent.”
He shrugged. “I guess we’re sharing.”
It shouldn’t be an issue. They’d been sharing a tent for months. But now, Solveig was exposed—her secrets were out in the open and couldn’t protect her anymore. Her armour had been hit too many times, leaving the flesh beneath vulnerable.
Westley finished up and threw a cotton shirt over his head, hesitating.
“Look, we’re both spent. The bed is enormous, so let’s just each pick a side and sleep,” he suggested calmly.
Solveig didn’t have it in her to fight, her body already succumbing to the exhaustion. “Fine.”
Westley moved towards the bed when the tent flap opened and Conalle entered followed by Noren, both freshly washed and clothed.
“Oh, thank the gods, a bed!” Conalle cried, flopping down beside Solveig.
“Excuse me?” she asked, shoving at the Fae lord. He barely moved.
“I know I didn’t almost die like you did, Sol, but we’ve all been awake for nearly three days straight,” he mumbled into the pillow, gathering blankets around himself.
“They only had one tent left for us, so we’re sharing,” Noren clarified.
“If I was going to choose males to share my bed with, it wouldn’t be you three,” Solveig muttered, arm thrown over her head. She couldn’t help it—she peeked at Westley just in time to see a muscle feather in his jaw.
“You don’t get a choice this time, so scooch over and make some room for Norry. He’s a grump when he’s tired.” Conalle shoved her to the middle so Noren could sleep on his other side.
“He’s always a grump,” Solveig huffed as she moved, resigned to a sleepless night.
“True,” Conalle mumbled through an open-mouth yawn.
“Fuck you guys,” Noren grumbled, turning on his side to face away from Conalle.
