They arrived at a set of thick oak doors. Solveig pushed them open to showcase a modest living suite. It looked comfortable and homey, muchto Westley’s surprise. Given the marble of the hallway, he had expected more cold finery. And more marble.
“These are your rooms, Noren.” Solveig ushered them into the suite. “Your closet will be stocked with whatever kind of clothing you wish, just let your manservant know and he’ll acquire it for you. Breakfast is served in the main parlour. Your guards will lead you there in the morning. Any questions?”
Noren poked his head into the bedroom. “There are two beds.”
“That’s not a question.”
“You said these were my rooms. Is West not staying here as well?”
“No. The prince will be staying elsewhere. Gerrie is across the hall, if you need anything. Feel free to bother her any time, day or night,” Solveig said with a smile. “I’ll leave you to get cleaned up. There is a change of clothes laid out in the washing chamber.”
She swiftly left his rooms, but Westley hesitated. He looked at Noren, who shrugged.
“I guess I’m following her,” Westley said, bidding his friend farewell.
“But—” Noren started. The door swung shut, cutting him off.
Westley had to rush to catch up to Solveig, who had not waited. They walked side by side up another staircase, this one smaller and curving along a wall of windows.
“Good thing I’m not scared of heights,” he commented, breaking the silence as he fell behind.
“That’s definitely a good thing. Wait until you see your room,” Solveig said over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs, higher and higher.
“Are you putting me in the attic?” he wondered aloud.
Solveig laughed, the sound light and relaxed. He wished to hear it again. “Yes, but you’ll see why in a minute.”
The winding stairs led them to an expansive corridor, wide enough to fit a carriage down the middle. In addition to the cold white marble, the hallway was covered with lush, ornate carpets and tapestries that must date back to the beginning of the world.
Westley stared at the wall hangings, mesmerized by the depictions, some so faded he could barely make out the patterns, while others looked like they were spun from silk only yesterday. Each of the nine realms were represented in the elaborately woven art.
An unexpected pain struck his chest. No Fae had existed before Yggdrasil had formed one world, and the absence of his race among the histories was a reminder that he would not exist if it hadn’t been for Ragnarök.
When he turned, he found Solveig leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded across her chest, watching him with an indiscernible look. Their eyes locked. A moment passed, and then another as silence filled the wide hallway. He became acutely aware of how alone they were.
So he wouldn’t do anything brash, he was the first to look away, eyes landing on the set of double doors framed side by side. Solveig leaned between them. She unfolded herself without a word and turned away from the gold-etched doors to the silver ones to her left.
Old runes were carved into the door, but before he could make out what they were, Solveig swung them open.
She led them first into a dark sitting room with thick wood floors, the walls a deep green. A roaring fire already warmed the hearth. Though it was stiflingly hot outside, the room was comfortable—cool, even, despite the flames providing heat.
Dark leather chairs and a sofa sat before the open fire, appearing aged and worn in, inviting him to sink into their embrace. Bookcases lined the walls surrounding the fireplace. Westley’s hand itched to get aholdof them. Later, he promised himself.
He took in the room with increasing curiosity. This place felt oddly familiar, despite never having set foot in here before. Solveig approached the bedchamber, stepping aside to allow him to enter first.
In the middle of the room sat a giant four-poster bed with golden silk sheets, plush onyx covers, and an inky, sheer fabric canopy draped over the dark wood posts. The fabrics were luxurious and full, and with an innumerable array of puffy pillows adorning the headboard, Westley wished to be swallowed into the depths of its comforting embrace.
Candles in the gold and silver chandelier flickered to life at the centre of the room, casting opulent light and shadows. A sensuous atmosphere lingered in the air as if the room held traces of old magic.
One wall had two doors. He assumed one was to the bathing room but wasn’t sure what the other was for.
But he couldn’t focus on that because the other side of the room, where a wall should have been, was a wide expanse of open space with dark wooden pillars supporting the ceiling. Westley walked over, enchanted by the view. It opened up to the cliffside, a straight drop towards the ocean.
He gaped at the magnificence of it all before something snagged in his memory. Though familiar, the image was mirrored somehow—distorted.
A bed with white sheets and light walls, the curtains gold instead of black, bed a light oak instead of a dark mahogany. He locked eyes with Solveig’s and knew she was thinking the same thing. The dreams he’d had while sharing her bed in the Southern Wilds.
He hadn’t imagined the place—it had been her memory, or rather her scenery she’d brought into the very vivid dream. A dream they’d apparently shared. A dream he’d replayed repeatedly, his cock gripped in his hand.
