by Evie Kent
At least now, just for a little while, we could be something more than two people stuck inside a fucking mountain. Two prisoners trapped together. Two miserable captives who wondered if they would eventually die in these stony corridors, rot away and turn to dust.
I smoothed my hand up his cheek, across a sharp jawline and coarse auburn scuff, and Loki leaned into me with a low rumble. His lips parted just as he snaked an arm around my back, drawing me into him, and we fell into a disturbingly familiar rhythm, mouths moving together, the kiss deep and slow.
Excitement sparked in my belly, scorching southbound without delay, when his tongue flicked at mine, teasing and playful, the flames even brighter when his teeth caught my lower lip. His touch thrilled me, but the feeling stemmed from something deeper than a skilled hand and a mouth that kissed me so thoroughly I felt him in my marrow.
Unfortunately, it was a feeling I still couldn’t put a name to.
His fingers found my jeans, plucking open the button and yanking down the zipper, and I climbed onto his lap with a gasp, some of our usual hurried franticness seeping into what had been—briefly—a tender moment. Pleasure bloomed between my thighs when I ground down, his cock thick and hard, positively raring to go. My arms coiled around his neck, our breaths rising, our bodies rocking—
And then I smoked the back of my head on the nook’s ceiling.
“Owwww,” I whined into his mouth, crouching down and rubbing at the spot that ached. Loki’s hands soon joined mine, our lips a breath apart—his crooked affectionately—and he shooed the pain away with a simple touch. Straddling his thighs, I leaned back and shook my head. “This is not a conducive space for fucking.”
“Nonsense,” Loki purred, dragging me flush against him and sneaking a hand under my shirt, teasing my back with his nails. “Anywhere is conducive for fucking—if you’re creative enough.”
And as always, Loki was a goddamn fountain of creativity. Even in the tight space, we somehow made it work, shuffling about, shifting, maneuvering our bodies even with his generously tented pants.
Which was another issue entirely: that white dress I’d worn for the first month sucked, but it was way more quickie-friendly than skintight jeans.
Clumsily, I eventually managed to kick them off and down the slope, no panties, no bra—because of course Loki wasn’t thinking about either when he put in a clothing request. Aching for him, for the closeness, I crawled onto the sprawled-out god, who lay waiting, lazily stroking himself as his eyes roved my body unchecked, and he claimed me with a single thrust.
On his back, Loki took the mountain’s bite all unto himself—no bruised shoulders or hips for me this time, even if he always healed me when all was said and done. Stretched and full, nipples poking through my flimsy tee, I sank down with a sigh and buried my face in his neck, let him pillow his head on my folded arms.
I had started to find comfort in his smell—in the scent of a man, all primal energy and the rough, raw wilderness that I dreamed about each night. What I smelled like to him was still a mystery; I bathed each day, had the odd deodorant stick show up when I pressed him for it, but Loki had a way of breathing me in that was so fucking hot… Clearly he enjoyed it, whatever it was.
We rocked together as the storm hammered the mountain, as lightning flashed bright and angry inside the nook and thunder rattled in our bones. On my knees, arms under his head, I closed my eyes and ground down, going with the easy flow for once instead of biting kisses and punishing caresses and Loki’s glorious hips pummeling me into whatever surface I found at my back—or at my front, bent over and moaning. With one arm wrapped tight around my waist, almost like a hug, Loki threaded his other hand into my hair and bucked up to meet my writhing body. We sought out mutual satisfaction, tension rippling through our limbs, breaths catching and hitching and whooshing across one another’s skin.
Muddled into the rising pleasure, the fire burning bright in my core, a strange twist of feeling took root inside me again. Affection, maybe. Appreciation—possibly. But I had to keep it straight in my head and in my heart: whatever it was had to come from this. Comfort, closeness, companionship… Loki and I found that in sex, not in each other. It was all circumstantial, making the best out of this fucked-up situation—no longer fighting it, just working as one to not feel so goddamn depressed all the time.
But it was tough to keep it straight, especially when he kissed me, cupped my chin, and smiled. I’d never wanted a fuckbuddy for this exact reason: sex and feelings were just too easily intertwined.
In New York, I always had the option to walk away if it ever got too messy.
Not here.
Not with him.
I came with a shiver and a moan, burrowing into his neck as three butterflies—the other two had found a friend, the bastards—soared in my chest, beating their wings to the pulse of my climax. Loki tipped into oblivion shortly after, thrusting harder, gripping me tighter, twisting my hair as his hips shuddered and his gorgeous body tensed.
The rain hit like a cold shower seconds later, billowing into the nook and dowsing us both. I managed a weak laugh, taking most of the wet this time, but Loki had me dry and clean in seconds. His hand went for my thighs, as if to heal the dull ache throbbing between them, but I pushed it away with a shake of my head. No. Not this time.
A part of me enjoyed the pain—if only because it reminded me of what had just happened, that I wasn’t here alone, and that if I needed him, Loki was the best distraction around.
We drifted apart in a strangely cozy silence, each settling on either side of the nook again. Me half naked and quickly covered in goose bumps, him rumpled and flushed and distant, eyes on the horizon.
Our legs outstretched toward each other.
Feet an inch apart.
And the storm showing no signs of lifting anytime soon.
19
Loki
“My lord, you realize if she can access the internet, she could call for help…”
Hands clasped behind my back, I tipped my head to the side and stared down little Oskar Jakobson—all grown up and as patronizing as his forebearers—and his waning father through the electrified bars of my cage. Honestly. These two really did think I was the simplest fucking creature on the planet, didn’t they? First, they kept this magnificent modern invention far, far away from me, and then there was the small matter of carrying on the tradition of completely disregarding my wishes for the last few centuries…
No longer.
I asked for their presence outside of the usual delivery so that I could get them alone, without the prying eyes and ears of the men who handled the food shipment crates. Here, I would find real answers.
“Of course I will monitor her actions,” I said pleasantly, my smile barbed. “She will not alert anyone to her situation. After all, I can, how did she put it, kill the Wi-Fi anytime I choose.”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you doubt my integrity? My sincerity?”
Jakob Jakobson—the family had lost all sense of name originality until his wife popped out Oskar—flushed bright pink, and my grin sharpened. Naturally, they should question all that, for I was Loki Laufeyjarson, the father of lies.
After glancing at his father, Oskar’s cheeks turned the same shade of pink, a near perfect mirror of his old man in just about every way.
“No, no, my lord, never,” Jakob stammered, his voice gravelly, harsh after decades of smoking, the scent of it ripe on his clothes, in his hair, on his fingertips. “We will acquire a top-of-the-line laptop for you and your mistress by tomorrow morning, as you wish.”
It had better be the best fucking model out there; Nora would know if it wasn’t. “Good.”
“Is there anything else?” Jakob had grown crinkled as of late, the decay of human aging evident around his thin mouth, his small eyes. In another decade or so, he would be gone, leaving Oskar in charge of this village—in charge of me. My eyes narrowed at the thought, but my smile remained.
&n
bsp; “No.”
The pair bowed and started to back away. I let them slink almost to the mouth of the cave before I perked up and snapped my fingers.
“Oh, yes,” I crooned. “One little thing.”
Father and son returned to my gate within seconds, practically tripping over themselves to not keep me waiting. Fuckers. They likely laughed at my misfortune the second they were out of earshot. I bit the insides of my cheeks, rage churning in my gut, then relaxed everything with a soft breath.
“When I’m through with my consorts, what becomes of them?”
Oskar hurriedly looked to his father, less skilled at masking his emotions than the old man, who continued to stare just over my left shoulder. I waited, let the silence drag on, until finally those aging eyes dared flick to mine, and I arched an eyebrow.
“The truth, Jakobson.”
“Well…” The old human scratched at the back of his neck, his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed and neat, his facial hair much the same. Handsome in his golden years, but fading now, his son stepping into his prime. What a strange experience it must be—to watch your successor bloom as you withered away.
Yet despite the wrinkling skin, Jakob’s bright blue eyes were keen, calculating, and I anticipated a bald-faced lie.
“We house them here.” Honesty. How unfortunate for him. Jakob cleared his throat, cheeks colored again, his knee-length shorts and that hideous buttoned floral T-shirt suddenly seeming too heavy for him as a bead of sweat slid from his hairline to his temple, then down the side of his face. “We give them a home in the paradise you created for us, my lord.”
The fire in my gut exploded. “I was very clear with the first jarl… They are to return home when I am through with them.”
Humans were right to fear the quiet before the storm, the moment that the forest fell deadly still. All the color in Oskar and Jakob’s faces vanished, leaving both men a deathly white at the shift in my tone. Gone was the playfulness, replaced with a calm swift and sharp as a dagger. Jakob smoothed a trembling hand down the front of his ridiculous shirt, then approached the bars without his son. Behind me, porcelain plates clinked together and water hissed from the tap; Nora had opted to wash the dishes by hand tonight, in need of something to occupy her time with, and I had let her, knowing it would do her no good to hear any part of this conversation.
“Respectfully, Lord Loki,” Jakob started, eyes darting about before dropping submissively to the ground, “this is a better home than most of these women have ever known—”
“Strange,” I said curtly. “I don’t recall ever asking for your opinion on the matter. I gave a direct command to my flock, and now I’m to learn that it was not obeyed? That for centuries you and your family have ignored me?”
“No, of course not, but—”
With a simple wave of my hand, Oskar’s right shinbone snapped in two. The man collapsed with a harsh, agonizing screech, his lower leg split at the injury site, one half still connected to his knee, the other deviating sharply to the left. Panicked, Jakob raced to his son’s side and collapsed on the cave floor beside him, hands skimming the break that would send shards of bone into the boy’s bloodstream—a break that I would not heal.
“Now that I have your attention,” I hissed, wrapping my hands around the bars, the electric bite no more than a fucking tickle. Jakob lifted his gaze to me, flushed again, no doubt spiraling into fear and rage at what I’d done to his son—what I could do to all of them. Oskar, meanwhile, had rolled onto his side, curled into a ball, and hid his sobs behind his arms. My lips quirked into a thin smile once more, unbothered by the display. “You will do as instructed. Remember, Jakob Jakobson, son of Jakob, son of Liam, son of Askel, son of Halfdan, son of Gorm… I am caged, but my reach is far.”
“Yes, my lord,” Jakob whispered. The pair waited for something further, tensed, but a dismissive flutter of my hand sent them scampering off, Jakob dragging his boy out of the cave and into the free air.
I watched them go, fuming.
Because I knew even with that display, they would ignore me. Coddle me. Appease me with another girl, fancier technology—whatever they could find to keep me docile and distracted. Nora had been right—so fucking right. The villagers of Ravndal had dubbed me the fool for centuries, and they would continue to do so long after today if I wasn’t careful.
Nora could never leave this place. Never return to America. Never dance again on a stage.
Never be free.
Seething, I stalked away from the electrified bars and deeper into my prison, my infernal torment, desperate for a good distraction—or there was no telling what this rage would make me do.
20
Nora
That scream spelled bad news—even if it made me feel just a little vindicated.
Not that I wanted anyone hurt, but fuck Oskar for what he did to me, shoving me into a wooden box as I fought and cried and begged…
Just the memory of his face, the last thing I saw before they sealed me in with a loaf of bread and an explanation that had sounded so batshit crazy at the time, made me tight. Teeth gritted, I slammed the tap to the left, culling the flow of water, and set my recently washed glass on the drying rack. On a scale of zero to ten, my love for doing dishes by hand ranked somewhere in the negative fifties, but at least it was something to do. Grabbing a towel, I dried my hands distractedly as I turned around and spotted Loki storming down the ramp.
I swallowed hard, taking him in. Statuesque and brooding, everything about him hard as ice—handsome beyond compare, even in a simple pair of slacks and a loose long-sleeved shirt scrunched up to his elbows, his feet bare. It was easy to imagine him at the helm of a ship, his plain clothes transformed to armor and leather, leading an army into battle against his fellow gods, but I preferred not to think about that side of him. Somehow it was just easier to imagine him as my sarcastic roommate, my hot fuckbuddy—my gorgeous cellmate. Depressed and lonely, just like me.
But from the twist of his lips, something about that conversation had gone wrong. Very wrong.
No laptop? I’d figured the request was a stretch, but Loki had a way with words—and technically, these villagers were supposed to fetch him whatever the hell he wanted without question.
Fear skittered up my arms and knotted in my chest, blending with an uncomfortable—and very unwelcome—pulse of interest between my thighs. He had never looked so furious before, his cheeks dabbed with a faint flush, his eyes stormy and very, very faraway.
Furious and hot.
He stalked toward the kitchen with long, powerful strides, maneuvering effortlessly around the furniture, not slowing until he was within a few feet of me. Without meaning to, I scrambled down the counter to put some space between us. The god stilled and blinked back to the moment, a flash of recognition suggesting he had only just realized I was even here.
I plopped the dish towel on the counter, hands dry but shaking. Curling them to fists, I crossed my arms and leaned a hip against the marble edge, head cocked. “Hey—”
Loki sidled closer, making my heart skip a beat at one of his panther-like movements, so fluid and fast that there was no way I could pretend he wasn’t a supernatural creature anymore—a god with no equal. Scowling, he looked me up and down, then nudged me aside and turned on the tap again. Seconds later, he had his hands buried in the sudsy water, his head drooped as he rustled soaking dinner plates around in the huge sink.
“Loki, it’s fine,” I said softly, stepping in to shoulder him out of the way. With that expression, so steely-eyed, everything about him like flint, he probably shouldn’t be handling anything breakable right now—and that included me. “I want to do the dishes—”
“Leave me be, firebird,” he growled, snatching the dish soap and spurting half the bottle onto the rough sponge I’d been pestering him to replace. “For your own sake.”
The warped desire I had for his rough touch and his kisses so deep, so possessive, that it was like he could taste my soul a
bruptly fizzled out. Sure, Loki had frightened me before, but he’d never warned me off… like he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from, what, snapping? This was new.
And terrifying.
I held up my hands and stepped back, then wordlessly scuttled to my usual spot on the other side of the table. The oak bench felt more supportive than ever as I sidled in, a cold sweat on my palms and a nervous flutter in my belly. Me from a month ago would have heeded the warning—got the hell out of dodge, made myself scarce. Instead, I sat there watching him as he washed dishes, his back and shoulders rustling, his movements rough and stilted.
A part of me really wanted to know how that conversation went, but self-preservation kicked into high gear and wouldn’t let me ask. Burning as they might be, the questions vanished, replaced by a low, pitchy whine between my ears, my heart beating loudly, firmly, against its cage.
Water dribbled across the counter as Loki moved a plate from the sink to the drying rack, shoving it roughly into place alongside everything I’d already washed. I winced before it even happened, knowing the porcelain couldn’t take his manhandling like I could. It started with a crack—then a splinter, the plate splitting and shattering into three huge pieces. Mustering up a smile, I was two seconds away from teasing him, about to insist that I take over if we wanted to have anything to eat off tomorrow morning, but the air stilled around us. So did Loki, and so did I, watching him stare down at that plate, his handsome profile shifting from a neutral—albeit annoyed—expression to pure rage.
I shrieked when he grabbed the drying rack and hurled it at the backsplash. Everything inside shattered, glass and porcelain exploding across the tile. Shards ricocheted back at him, but Loki was fucking bulletproof, moving straight onto the cabinets and ripping them out of the stone. Hurling them away. Screaming so that the mountain shook all around us. His rage was volcanic and brutal.