“I’m a witch now?”
“You have possessed my mind and soul. What else would you call this but a spell?”
Her eyes glistened again as they locked gazes.
“Love,” she whispered right before their mouths crashed together.
Light exploded behind her eyes at the forbidden contact.
Right, right, right.
Her heart beat in time with the words.
Tears she’d held back now escaped, streaking down her cheeks before spilling onto the dead field below. The moment a tear hit the earth, green grass bloomed in its wake. His lips curled against hers as he wiped her face with his thumbs.
“You are life itself,” he whispered.
And then there were no more words between them as he laid her down in the blossoming field and reminded her what it was to live.
White-hotpainburstthroughWestley’s abdomen, momentarily blinding him as it raced directly to his heart.
Solveig’s magic withdrew from his body, as did she, freeing him from her constraints as he collapsed to the ground. The pain of the wound was unbearable to the point of disorientation. His vision swam as he struggled to focus.
His body throbbed with the sting of the embedded dagger, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as blinding pain took him under, plunging him into darkness where only his regrets waited for him.
Westley hovered at the edge of the mortal village, blending into the shadows. Dressed in all black save for the mask he had yet to place on his face, he became night itself.
The familiar weight of Noren and Viggo flanked him on either side, with Brenna taking up the rear.
It had been a rough journey to Vanaheim from Idavoll. His parents had received word of the Southern Wilds raid, and they had no choice but to ride through the night. Just once Westley wished they would consider a new approach, but his parents were stubborn and they were running out of time.
They all were.
Idavoll’s cursed winter was bringing their people to the edge of extinction, leaving them no choice. They had to find this traitor, the Vanir general of Asgard. He was the key to regaining their magic and restoring their forest.
Westley stood poised and ready for the Southern Wilds to arrive, waiting for a sign from the gods, holding out for someone of importance—someone who would lead them to the Vanir general. The last few prisoners they’d managed to capture had given them nothing.
Nothing wasn’t an option for this mission.
Booth had been assigned to accompany him this time and was waiting for them back at their camp. His two Giant companions, Svend and Skarde, who’d come to the village to help, stood a few feet away waiting to grab one of the Vanir.
Fucking Booth Gunnarson.
He despised the half-breed. Westley wasn’t above committing horrific acts to save his people, and he had gritted his teeth through many orders from his father, but there were lines he would not cross. Even if he hadn’t found all of them yet. The Giants had no such qualms, and Booth in particular delighted in every ugly situation.
But Idavoll’s alliance with Jotunheim being so precarious, he couldn’t very well insist their half-Giant bastard heir stay away. Westley resigned himself to his fate, hating that he would have to stomach Booth’s vile form of torture.
Movement caught Westley’s eye, dragging his attention to the mortal village. The Vanir had just arrived, a larger group than their usual four to six. He smiled at their stupidity—capturing someone would be easy.
Thank the gods for their luck.
Westley studied them as they split into teams of two, scurrying off to do gods knew what.
He signalled to his companions and they donned their masks, allowing the night to swallow them completely. They took their positions near where the Vanir had stashed their horses.
Surprise rocked through him at what he saw.
Maddock was sitting on the ground, carving drawings in the dirt like a bored giantling. What the fuck was he doing there? Maddock was the liaison between Jotunheim and Asgard, mostly used for political dealings. To see him accompanying the Vanir soldiers was unsettling.
