by Evie Kent
I had been physically pain-free under Loki’s care.
Nothing he could do for my mental health, apparently, but my body—it had never felt this good. The ballet studio had been my second home since I was a kid, the barre an old friend. All these months without the usual aches and pains… I wasn’t a dancer anymore.
Until this very moment.
Until he asked me.
Pushed me.
“I should stretch,” I said distractedly, hunched over, pushing each foot to its limit and beyond for a set count. “You know, just to be safe.”
“Then stretch.”
My eyes flicked up, and I found Loki watching me from the huge oak tabletop, seated on it, a full drink in hand. Voice tinged with darkness, his gaze was shrouded, its color like the boughs of the oldest pines in the deepest part of the forest, where sunlight died before it hit the ground. Swallowing thickly, I did my best to ignore him, ignore the intensity again, the way he watched me go through my routine without saying a word.
But he tracked me, my every movement studied and catalogued as a predator does its prey.
Just to get it over with, I could have skipped a few steps—but if there was anything in my life that made me thorough, that made me intense as fuck, it was ballet. For ballet, I did nothing half-assed. Stretching dragged on for a full forty-five minutes, and still Loki said nothing, just watched and drank and smirked when our eyes met. Whenever I could block him out, I sank into the familiarity of the routine, my body welcoming the twist and pull of every muscle, the methodical loosening and relaxing and strengthening of joints.
When I eventually finished, a small, miniscule part of me felt like a dancer again, coated in a thin layer of perspiration, my jean knee-length cutoffs and slightly too-small Van Halen tee nowhere near conducive for bodywork. But there was the ache, the twinge that told me I was ready to work.
Eyes closed, I let everything hang loose for a few beats, willing my heart rate to slow, indulging in the soreness. I’ve missed you.
“Are you finished?” Loki was standing when I opened my eyes again, having closed the distance between us by half. After I nodded, he summoned me with a crooked finger. “Good. Come here, then, and shut your eyes.”
Confusion spider-walked down my spine, a dull reminder that with Loki, nothing was ever straightforward. Hesitating, I smoothed my hair away from my face, ready to give my left tit for an elastic to lop it up on top of my head. Another beckoning of his finger, his eyes slightly narrowed this time, set me in motion, and I kept going until we were almost on top of each other.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured, a little reminder that made me frown.
“What are you—”
“Just do it, firebird.”
Sighing, I obliged, then flinched when his cool fingers smoothed along my jaw, across my cheeks, not stopping their slow, lazy journey until they reached my hairline.
“Let me in, firebird…” Loki’s whisper slithered seductively around the depths of my skull, and I stiffened with a sharp breath. Darkness reigned behind my lids, but at the sound of him inside my head, a soft glow suddenly flickered, faint as candlelight. His touch faded, as did the sounds of the mountain—water dripping, wind screaming through distant corridors. Warmth bloomed in my chest, melting lower as he crooned, “Take me home. Show me your studio. Let me see it—every detail.”
I swallowed hard, then did my best to picture my old studio. It wasn’t difficult; I used to spend more time there than I did at my apartment. The sprawling space, so bright with a full wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The opposite was rough exposed red brick with a mounted wood barre that stretched its full length. Light laminate floors designed to look like shiny birch planks. An enormous mirror along the left wall, always spotless. An expensive black piano next to the door. Airy and bright, my studio, with rustic touches and brick that I occasionally scraped my knuckles on.
“Open your eyes,” Loki urged, his voice hoarse as it licked along the crown of my skull, then dripped down my spine. I almost didn’t want to leave this headspace, remembering my studio, his voice so fucking delicious, but I did—because I wanted to be the Sugar Plum Fairy, and if he—
“Oh my god.” When I opened my eyes, blinking hard, lashes fluttering, I was there. In my old studio. All around me—golden sunlight slanted in through the huge windows, so bright and vivid that I felt their warmth. I stepped around Loki, gobbling it all up in a panic, like if I blinked again, it would disappear.
It didn’t.
It was still there—the mirror, the piano, the birch floor, the barre, and the brick.
“This…” Can’t be real. Can’t be happening. My chest rose and fell in hard, fast beats, and I pressed my hand to it, willing it to slow.
“Don’t overthink it,” Loki drawled, and I whirled around to find him in the studio with me, this stranger in my safe place. “We’re here—just for you.” He crossed his arms, grinning, then lilted to the left and leaned against the barre, his shoulder to the brick. “Show me. Dance for me, little fairy. You have a ravenous audience.”
Fuck me, did he ever know how to make a ballerina feel wanted.
My cheeks burned crimson, and I padded over to the starting point on the far side of the studio in my beat-up but unbroken pointe shoes. Loki rotated on the spot, following me with a gaze that certainly felt ravenous, but his stance suggested he had to put his full weight on the barre—like he needed it for support. It groaned in protest when he shifted in place, the usually solid wood dipped and warped.
Same, barre. Same.
Positioning myself in the far corner, I settled into a B-plus pose: resting on one leg, while the other stretched back, toes to the floor, with a slight bend in the knee. Arms out and down, gracefully at my sides, fingers light as air. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t start. Not without a song so familiar that even non-ballet fanatics knew it.
“Can you…” I licked my lips, unsure if this was asking too much. “Can you make the music?”
“If you can think it,” Loki remarked. He swept his hand through his hair, as if totally at ease here, only this time his hand noticeably shook. And his expression seemed pinched, like he had the whole world on his shoulders. My Atlas.
This… was a lot of effort for him.
Closing my eyes, I thought of the first few tinkling notes to “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.”
“Let me hear it, firebird,” he urged, his voice in my head again, softer this time, wavering slightly. I cracked open one eye.
“This is the most incredible thing you’ve ever done, Loki.” Transporting me somewhere else, somewhere far, far away from the fucking mountain—amazing. He truly was a god, not just in name or birthright, but in status and power, too. “Seriously.”
His throat bobbed. “Just play me the music.”
Sometimes he reveled in compliments, but he tended to shy away from the authentic ones, those that spoke to his character and not just his skills in the bedroom.
Eyes clenched shut again, I went through the melody as best I could, remembering it first on the piano, then with the whole orchestra. The subtleties. The bells. The light and delicate feel of it.
And then there it was, tinkling through invisible speakers, filling the studio. At first, I just wanted to sit down and enjoy it, but there was no telling the toll this took on Loki—so I moved. I dropped down to my entrance pose, then glided into my pointe work, tiptoeing onto the makeshift stage, embodying the Sugar Plum Fairy as best I could. In the scene, she was there to show her status, to prove she belonged with her prince—she needed to float. She needed to be effortless.
Up on my toes, floating, flying through movements and positions and postures I’d left behind in New York… I was free.
I was a dancer again, and nothing else mattered.
Crisp and light pas de bourrées. Fingers and eyes and smile working as one, giving my audience a proper show—like I was his fairy, Loki my prince, and I so adored dancing for him. Reaching
arabesques, my hips tight, pushing into the posture even as they protested.
Despite the odd wobble, I remembered the routine well, forever ingrained in my mind after hours of rehearsal with Aubrey and our mentors. I glided around the space, becoming the fairy, until the final never-ending piqué manages that used to haunt my dreams—tight, fast turns that carried the ballerina around the whole stage, gaze stabilized but body whipping around in place. Step onto a straight leg, the other up and forward, folded perfectly, arms out and then in so close for speed and precision and movement.
The most difficult part of the routine.
The one that used to leave me breathless and dizzy until I finally conquered it.
All the way around the stage, spinning and gliding and spinning and tiptoeing and a little jump and all the way around—
I collided hard with Loki’s solid frame near my final mark, where I would pose, elegantly, looking royal from head to toe. Graceful hands. A humble smile. Breathing slow and steady even as my heart hammered behind my ribs.
Loki stopped that. Stepped in the way. I grabbed at his chest as the music tapered off, steadying myself, panting, exhausted and exhilarated.
And…
And as I lifted my eyes to his, maybe, just maybe…
A little smitten.
Enamored, possibly, with the god who had asked me to dance, given me these shoes, promised he would never hand me over to them.
Yes, I was stuck here because of him, because of his loneliness, his selfishness, his refusal to admit that humans weren’t playthings for the divine, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. For a few precious seconds, he was the man who had given me all this, watched me hungrily as I teetered and pitter-pattered around my old studio like I well and truly mattered.
I gripped his shirt and stood up on my pointes, then dragged him closer, his mouth crashing to mine. He gave in without a fight, falling obediently into a kiss that started as all our kisses did: rough and frantic, intense, lips colliding like the crack of thunder and instantly parting—as if neither of us could get enough. But unlike all the others, this kiss softened almost just as fast, me easing back to flat feet, Loki following with a possessive hand stretched over my lower back. His eyes closed first, mine shortly after, and our mouths moved as one. Slowly. Deeply.
As soon as I cupped his face, something shifted between us. The air grew heavy. The butterflies in my chest exploded, thousands of them beating their wings in some sick celebration that had me smiling against his lips.
Romantic.
Our kisses had never felt romantic before. Violent, yes. Abrasive? Definitely. Domineering and lip-bruising. Only occasionally intimate. But this was like curling up together on a cushy couch, rain hammering the nearby window, everything dark and cozy and complete. It was the first time you truly looked at this other human being who fucked you and laughed with you and carried all the groceries for you—and realized they were your person, and the world just wasn’t right without them.
And that scared the absolute shit out of me.
To suddenly feel so deeply for someone—for Loki, of all the creatures in the goddamn universe.
To feel so raw… and know that one day, I would leave him forever. I would. I’d get out of here, with or without him.
A rush of tears prickled behind my closed lids, and I retreated with a sharp breath, my chest aching as if someone had shoved a whole load of glass shards into it. My eyes fluttered open…
And we were back.
Here.
My studio was gone, all the light and airy replaced with an oppressive grey that made my wounded heart sink. My hands slid down Loki’s neck, then his chest, as I glanced around with watery eyes. This place was so fucking depressing. So closed in, even if the main hall was over a hundred feet tall. It was confined and dark, ever-present, a constant reminder that we were stuck, fucked over by my own species—that humans were keeping us here, that humans would never let me go home. The stony floors, walls, and ceiling. The catalogue furniture. The stainless-steel appliances that ran without wires or outlets.
I bit the insides of my cheeks, catching a sob halfway up my throat and holding firm to the point of pain.
Loki hadn’t moved, his hands on my hips now, his face so beautifully relaxed; it was the first time I’d ever seen him look like this, and that made me hurt even more. When his eyes finally opened, slowly, like he couldn’t stand to do it, his gaze first settled on my face, then slowly lifted to the depressing landscape around us.
“Sorry,” he whispered roughly, hands raking up my figure like he was mapping my every curve. “I’ll get it back in a—”
“No.” I twisted out of his grasp, bereft without him but unable to return to a fantasy knowing it was just a fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing but our imagination and a pinch of godly magic. “No.” Tears careened down my cheeks, and I shook my head, backing away from him in my pointe shoes, my body aching from the fairy’s dance. “No, if it’s not real, I don’t want it.”
The muscles along Loki’s strong jaw rippled, like he’d bit down, clenched hard, and he caught me before I could get much farther. His hands found my face, engulfed it, and I stiffened, gasped, a protest ready to go—terrified that he might drag me back to the studio whether I liked it or not.
But he just brushed my tears away, drying my cheeks with his thumbs. Swallowing thickly, the lump in my throat refused to budge as I grabbed his wrists and closed in on him until our bodies collided. Real. He was real—and I wanted that. Needed it.
Needed him.
Loki Laufeyjarson, in all his raw beauty, his fury, his mood and tantrums and jokes and leers and pensive quiet.
Only I…
“I have to get out of here,” I whispered shakily, fighting to hold his gaze as I felt him slipping away from me, his ancient greens clouded over. “I can’t be in this fucking place anymore.”
He said nothing, his expression distant, and I stood up on my toes, supported by my shoes, and grabbed hold of his face—shook it hard enough to bring him back to the present.
“Loki, we have to get out of here.”
And I meant it. Impossible as it might be, he needed to get the fuck out of this mountain even more than I did. Eight hundred years—three months. Our situations were nowhere near comparable, even if my lifespan was infinitely shorter.
Loki’s eye twitched, and he gave a little headshake. “I doomed my own kind, firebird. I belong—”
“You played a part in the beginning, yes,” I argued, a fire sparking in my gut, its flames sparking up my throat and pulverizing that fucking lump. “You did, and you deserved to be punished for manipulating some blind guy into accidentally murdering his brother. It was a really shitty thing to do, never mind kick-starting the fucking apocalypse.” Look at me—lecturing a god. “But they did the other two things that made Ragnarok a reality, and eight hundred years is enough. You’re eligible for parole, Loki. Take it.”
The storm clouds in his eyes darkened. “And how would I do that?”
“I don’t know.” Really. I had no clue how to get myself out of here, let alone breach an impenetrable magic wall. “We’ll figure it out. We’ll find a way… somehow.”
The sentiment didn’t exactly bolster much confidence—in either of us, probably—but if I was getting out of here, we ought to fight for him, too. Yes, we might fail. Yes, this could end in heartbreak. But we had to try.
He had so much potential to offer the world.
And he had suffered enough in here.
Loki shook his head more vehemently this time, avoiding my gaze, roving the main hall as if he hadn’t memorized every detail in the last eight hundred years. Gnawing at the inside of my cheek, I gave him a few seconds before I pushed up again, my mouth hungry for his, desperate to show him that I was serious.
Only when we kissed, we flatlined. Immediately. Loki made no effort to kiss me back, the romantic spark from earlier fizzled to ash. Eyes open, the god took me by the shoulders and
pushed me away, harsh enough to knock me over if he hadn’t held tight.
“No,” he rasped, expression unreadable. My brows knitted, hurt and rejection twisting in my belly, and I crossed my arms—like that alone would protect my heart.
“What?”
“If it’s not real…” He finally looked me dead in the eye, primordial and all-powerful and so fucking fierce that it made my knees buckle. “Then I don’t want it anymore.”
Confusion ripped through the panic, the hurt, and I just stood there as he strode off, disappearing into the mountain without another word.
Couldn’t he feel it—how real that kiss had been in the studio?
We’d kissed countless times before. Screwed regularly. Cuddled on bad days and kept each other company on the good ones.
But now, when clarity had hit me like a fucking freight train, he couldn’t feel that it was real?
I undid my shoes with shaky fingers, tossed them aside—and ran barefoot into the oppressive darkness after him.
24
Loki
Pathetic. Weak. Useless. Lower than dirt…
After three months together, I couldn’t let her go.
But knowing what this place did to her, I couldn’t let her stay either.
Not after I’d developed… feelings.
At this point, it wasn’t just the desire for fiery companionship that drove me to her—it was more. I needed her, not just anyone. Nora Olsen. Her beauty, her wit, her passion. Watching her dance had cemented that into my tormented mind, bringing together thoughts I had battled for weeks.