He wanted to tear the eyes out of every male who was drinking her in.
“That the fierce general we’ve been chasing is literally a fucking goddess,” Easta whispered.
Westley barely heard his sisters with all his senses trained on Solveig, unable to focus on anything but her.
“Oooooh, you want her baaaaad,” North said, slapping him on the arm, snapping Westley’s attention back to his sisters.
“What?” he exclaimed.
“He does, look! His cheeks are all flushed,” Easta teased.
“You two are ridiculous,” he muttered, his eyes drifting back to Solveig of their own accord.
North’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Before they could tease him any more, three figures approached, distracting his sisters from Solveig. Thank the goddesses.
In all her trips to Idavoll, Solveig had never met any of its heirs. A goal of her youth had been to build relationships with all the royal offspring—connections that would benefit her, should she ever need assistance.
But when it came to Idavoll, the four heirs were kept from her. Koa told her this was because Idavoll wanted no part in joining Asgard by marriage, so they kept their faelings away when she visited.
At first, she understood, but after a while, Solveig grew suspicious. Her mothers sent her away anytime Idavoll visited their city as well.
She enjoyed watching them interact from afar—could tell they were his sisters by the way they teased him, drawing exasperated looks only siblings can manage. But when Noren led two more Fae over to greet them, Solveig’s spine straightened, all misgivings about the ball melting away, replaced by fear and loathing.
The male beside Noren was built similarly, all muscle and grace, though he had dark blond hair and a thick beard, contrasting Noren’sbrown hair and clean-shaven face. Noren stood rigidly, while the other male laughed and casually slung his arms around Westley’s shoulders.
Thick.
The female with bone-straight hair and narrow eyes moved fluidly towards Westley, tucking herself under his other arm without hesitation. Their embrace was natural, like they’d done it a thousand times before, and Solveig’s shoulders rose with tension, her magic hissing.
Water.
Before she knew what she was doing, she excused herself from her conversation with the Svartalfheim chancellor and made her way over to the group of Fae. Westley caught her movement and immediately extricated himself from Water’s hold before shrugging off Thick’s arm.
He met her with a bow before she reached his group. The others traded glances behind him and Noren muttered something she couldn’t hear. Based on the lack of surprise, they already knew who she was.
“Princess,” Westley said as she straightened. His easy features tightened when he noticed her rigid posture.
Solveig inclined her head. “Prince.”
“Is that what I am to call you now?” he asked, his voice husky.
“Definitely not,” she replied sharply.
“I can’t call you General here, correct?” he asked under his breath so only she could hear.
“Yes. Though I’m not sure it matters now that your family knows,” she said. With all the dignitaries in the palace, she wasn’t sure how quickly word would get around. After everything that had happened, concealing her identity was the least of her priorities.
Someone coughed right behind Westley and he jumped a little in surprise. He turned to reveal one of his sisters, who, based on context alone, Solveig assumed was the first heir.
“Solveig, this is my eldest sister, North,” Westley said, begrudgingly introducing her. North bowed to her and Solveig bowed back.
“A pleasure to meet you. My brother has told me absolutely nothing about you,” North said with a smile.
“That’s probably a good thing, since he likely would’ve told you what an asshole I am,” Solveig replied, liking the Fae princess immediately.
“Well, we’re all assholes in this family, so that would mean he accepts you,” the other sister said, coming up beside North. “I’m Easta.” She extended a hand towards Solveig, who took it. Easta gave her a squeeze and a wink.
“You, I have heard about,” Solveig said to her, and Easta smiled wickedly.
