He was grateful their bond remained incomplete so she wouldn’t be able to feel the turbulence in his soul. It was an effort to keep the emotions off his face. An effort that was, apparently, pointless, for she saw them. She saw him.
Her face softened, her throat bobbed, and her eyes shifted from side to side as if she was deliberating. He waited with bated breath for her decision, refusing to pull her in but unable to push her away.
It was an effort to remember the promise he’d made to himself just last night.
When she met his gaze again, there was something that resembled understanding there.
She took the steps to close the distance, hesitating before raising her hand to stroke his face. “What battle wages inside you, Prince?” Her words caressed and soothed his soul.
He leaned into her touch before wrenching away, undeserving of her forgiveness, if that’s what this was. Her hand fell to the side, but there was no pain on her face.
She waited, allowing him to gather his thoughts. He had to be as honest as he could be without making her his captive once more.
“Do you remember in the Southern Wilds, when I told you the story of the Seer that had visited Idavoll,” he began. She nodded.
“Sten had interrupted our archery lessons.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure he interrupted you telling me to fuck off,” Westley joked.
Solveig’s eyes brightened at the memory. “You deserved it.”
So loaded. Everything was so loaded between them.
“I did,” he admitted, chuckling sadly. “The Seer told me that a hungry wolf is destined to wage a desperate battle.” He paused, and damn him to Hel, his resolve to stay away from her vanished as copper eyes stared, open and vulnerable, back at him. “I’d always assumed that she spoke of my duty to my people, to all the things I would do for Idavoll and the gods.
“But I was wrong to think that I was born to do anything but hunger for you.” It wasn’t a conscious decision to bring his hands to her face, to cradle her as he pulled her in. “I am desperate and aching. I am starving for you.”
Solveig tried to shake her head, but he wouldn’t let her. “You were made for more than me,” she argued with a whisper that caressed his lips.
How wrong she was.
“You have stolen my every thought, Solveig. I’m consumed by you. I’m so fucking in love with you that my heart”—he palmed his chest, aching with the force of the confession—“beats differently when you are not near. Your very presence fills me with life, but I am not worthy of the air you breathe.” He took a moment to collect himself, and she allowed the silence to stretch between them as he struggled for words. Westley took a deep inhale of her stormy scent before admitting, “Your every scream haunts my dreams. Haunts me because I do not deserve to love you. I only deserve your hate, your blade.”
He tore his gaze away and stepped back, dropping his hands, unable to bear looking at her, knowing he wouldn’t hear the words back. She couldn’t love him and he didn’t expect her to. He’d already gone far enough—he’d revealed too much.
Goddess, he was a fool to think he’d be able to be in her presence without laying himself at her feet.
Her voice was soft and quiet when she finally spoke.
“You told me you were that desperate wolf, doing terrible things for your people. I understand that,” she admitted.
She pressed her hand firmly on his chest, over the heart that beat for her, causing him to look up. Her face was earnest. Vulnerable. “I don’t have the energy to pretend I don’t anymore.”
His heart stopped.
He backed away.
“Do not give me hope. You have to hate me.”
She shook her head, stepping closer.
“Hate me. Hate me for loving you when I don’t deserve to,” he pleaded.
“I don’t hate you.”
“Solveig.” His resolve was breaking with every second she refused to back away.
She said nothing, only stared with those beautiful copper eyes. Did she feel it? The bond vibrated with energy, tugging at them, nearly exploding between them.
