“Isn’t that why you came over?” she challenged. Her predatory smile sent shivers down his spine. There was no humour or joy in her expression.
His own wicked grin was an answer as he stepped onto the mat. The second his foot made contact with the floor, she was on him. He barely blocked the blow she aimed at his neck, his eyebrows flying to his hairline.
“That’s how you want to play this?” he growled, shoving her away with more force than necessary.
“Who says I’m playing?”
Damn his body for reacting to her.
He went on the offensive. Even though she’d just spent the last hour fighting Gerrie, she held him off. They danced around each other until Westley caught her from behind. Pulling a dirk out of his boot and ramming it upwards towards her chin, he almost nicked her skin.
Solveig ducked to the side, spinning to face him, but Westley had been prepared for that move. He shifted his weight and threw her off balance, hooking his leg around the back of her knee and knocking her to the ground. She balked the second her back hit the floor, slamming her fists into his elbows so he buckled over. He winced at the blow.
She smiled—a real smile this time, hitting him like a ton of bricks. Had he ever seen her this light, this unencumbered by pain or fear?
He was so blinded by her sudden burst of joy that she kicked him hard in the chest, and just as Noren had pointed out, she knocked him on his ass, sword at his throat.
That’s the second time I’ve beat you, Prince. You must like being beneath my sword.
I’ll gladly get on my back for you any time you wish.
Solveig snorted out loud and extended a hand. He grasped it firmly, embracing the jolt of energy that passed between them, and let her help him to his feet. She didn’t drop his hand right away, tightening her grip and bringing him close.
Be careful what you wish for, she purred.
When she let go, the absence of her touch was like a physical ache.
The night before the ball, Westley tossed and turned in his bed, eyes once again drawn to the door that connected his rooms to Solveig’s. It remained unlocked but neither had used it. The only time he’d dared to open it, she had not been in her room.
His stomach twisted at the thought that she might be sharing a bed with another. Though nothing pointed to that conclusion, he couldn’t help but think the worst.
He had to remind himself that she wasn’t his, she couldn’t be. Even if she forgave him, even if she trusted him enough to make him an ally, there was no way around the fact that he’d captured her, was complicit in her torture—whether he’d laid a hand on her or not.
Tearing his eyes away from the door and shoving down the urge to go to her, he thought over the past month in Asgard.
During his previous visits he’d always been accompanied by his family or guards and had never walked the streets or spoken with the people.
This time, he had the opportunity to do so. More than just the Asgardian Fae lived here. The population was diverse, hosting all manner of races.
He’d seen Dwarven blacksmith shops, Light Elven apothecaries—Hel, he’d even seen a Dark Elven operating a bakery. Mortal children played with faelings and witchlings.
Westley’s eyes were opened to a new possibility.
There was no way around it. He had been wrong. He’d been short-sighted and had allowed his parents to cloud his view of the world.
Not only that, but he had allowed them to dictate all his opinions as he blindly followed, taking them at their word instead of discovering it on his own.
North had tried, and so had Easta, but because of his position as War Prince, he’d only beheld the brutal battlefields and atrocities that his army, the Riddari, had seen. He only saw the evils of other races.
This Asgard he’d witnessed, the peaceful everyday life, wasgood. The queens ruled fairly, if not harshly when called for. Westley had even been surprised that they spoke of the gods differently.
He’d assumed that because they were Fae, they believed as Idavoll did, that the gods lived and used their power to help the world and bless their followers. That the Fae were a chosen race, created to rule over the others.
In his brief stay, he’d learned the Asgardians believed that though some gods had survived Ragnarök, they remained powerless, residing in Valhalla. Their only influence was with the land, over the magic that lived in the realms, and not over people.
His life had been determined by what the gods wanted—what his parents told him the gods wanted.
The belief that he had more control over his life than the gods did was a new concept. He floated adrift on the possibilities this presented,leaving him nearly directionless. Giving up his fight for sleep, Westley sat on the edge of the cliffs in his rooms and tried to clear his mind. The moon cresting over the sea captivated his attention, absorbing the effects of being so close to the water. His magic stirred, reaching out to the vast source of his power. Being so close made his magic thirst. He longed to be on the open water, where his magic was most powerful.
