Solveig got to her feet, tired of kneeling. Westley stood beside her, but she took half a step in front of him as if she could shield him from her father. He would have none of that, standing at her side.
“Have you come to release me from my chains?” Thor asked.
“No, I’ve come for information and information alone,” Solveig said firmly.
Thor could never be removed from his chains. He was dangerous. It had taken them a while to recognise the corruption rooted in her father’s soul.
The myths painted him as this almighty being—the saviour of the realms, the good that balanced evil. But legends were not truth.
Maybe he was, once. But Ragnarök had changed all the Aesir who’d survived. Thor had become cruel and cunning, full of pride and the belief that he should rule the world.
When the truth of his character was revealed, Solveig and her mothers had trapped him by wielding his own magic against him. They’d taken a page out of legends and used a trick Loki had played on Thor. They transformed a beast into Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged horse.
So jealous was Thor of Odin’s horse that he meant to catch it for himself, leading him directly to Hel.
His magic was sapped the moment his feet touched the shore, and they were able to incapacitate him.
Should his chains ever be removed, Solveig suspected that whatever power Ragnvald had—whatever force allowed for the use of magic on the once-dead realm—would unleash Thor’s power as well.
That could not happen—the gods could not be trusted.
Thor scoffed. “What information do you think I have?”
“We think you are the key to the dark magic Ragnvald is using.”
“Ragnvald.” Thor screwed up his face like he was trying to recall the name. “Ragnvald. Ah yes, my beloved King of Hel.”
“Cut the act, Thor,” Westley snapped. Apparently his patience had run out. Solveig couldn’t blame him. Being kept in the dark for any purpose was never a good feeling.
“My, my. No more respect from our devout prince?” Thor laughed without humour. “How many prayers have you whispered to me over your centuries? How many acts of horror have you committed in my name?”
Westley bristled, and Solveig had to put a hand on his arm before he could do anything to jeopardise this mission.
He’s baiting you, she said, though Thor had already proved able to hear their silent conversations.
I know.
“Since you have not yet mated, you are useless to me,” Thor said, licking his lower lip. “Even if I bait you into attacking me, only someone with my blood, Solveig’s blood, would be able to release me. So no, I’m not baiting you—it’s only for my own enjoyment. I’ve had so little, you know.”
Solveig’s mind emptied. Stupid, stupid. She couldn’t think of it, could not allow the thoughts to cross her mind and hoped Westley was doing the same.
Thor was wrong.
Though they hadn’t mated, Westley had tasted her blood, and recently.
She tried not to think about it, but her body reacted, the threat to her mate too severe to hide her reaction. Westley stiffened as her thoughts trickled into his head—her blood flowed through his veins. She tried not to move her hand to the fresh marks Westley had given her, currently concealed by the collar of her leathers.
Thor’s brows rose and a cruel smile played on his lips.
“Very interesting indeed.” He stepped forward but didn’t get far.
It wasn’t the chains that stopped his approach.
A golden blade wrapped around the base of his neck, halting him. True terror filled his eyes as the blade pricked his skin. There were very few weapons that could pierce the skin of a god. And if he died in Hel, he would cease to exist, eliminating one of the last of the Aesir—the race of the gods.
A dark fist curled around the dagger’s ornate hilt. Thor stepped fully into the light and with him, his handler.
“Gerrie?” Solveig asked, confusion flushing out all other thoughts. “What are you doing?” Her father may be evil, but she didn’t want him dead.
