I see you || Loki

1. Literary Liaisons

It started in the library. That was your retreat, your sanctuary—the small slice of Asgard where you knew you would never run into Thor.

Thor. The Odinson. God of Thunder. The Crowned Prince. The Future King.

Your future husband.

It wasn't anything of your doing, but an agreement between fathers and grandfathers in days gone by. Those agreements were as difficult to break as any Valkyrie shield.

You had seen Thor before, of course. You had to. At every court gathering, at every official feast, there you were, a backdrop to his glory.

You preferred the library. The quiet hush of the shelves, the settling of dust over pages, they soothed your soul, quieted something desperate inside you that called for a fate beyond what your grandfather had drawn in contracts before you were born.

Today, you read a historical tome. It was the record of the war with Jotunheim, of the Ice Giants in their conquest of the nine realms, and Odin's valiant defeat of their ruler. You'd heard as much in stories your mother told you as a child. The military recollection was a great deal more thorough. The pages begged you to stay through the night, read by candlelight, but it was time to return to your chambers for repast and reflection. The tome, too, must return to its proper place.

You hummed to yourself as you strolled through the endless shelves of the library. You ran your fingertips along the spines of the books like a lover's caress. Books were never more than they seemed. Books never lied. When you were a child, you had vowed to read them all. As an adult, the prospect that there was more knowledge in these hallowed halls than you could absorb thrilled you.

You reached your destination and rounded the corner, thoughts still with the endless days of study before you, and came up short.

Two figures writhed at the far end of the shelves, twined together in a way that could only be described as indecent. You froze, mind grinding to a halt at the vision in front of you. He was all masculine power—claiming, clutching. She was in rapture, absolute ecstasy written across her features. Her skirt was around her waist, one leg thrown over his hips. His hand was between them. Her fingers tangled in his hair even as he marked her throat and chest with his teeth. She let out the softest of moans and he clasped a hand over her mouth, shushing her. No wonder you hadn't heard them on your approach.

You were going to make your retreat (you were!) when he lifted his gaze and his eyes pierced you from over her shoulder. Your breath caught in your throat. You would have recognized those eyes anywhere. Emerald green, sharp and cold while burning with intensity—Loki, Prince of Asgard. You wanted to run, but he held you captive with his attention, like a rabbit caught in the sights of a fox.

To his companion, he gave no hint of your intrusion, continuing his ministrations while his gaze remained fully locked with yours. Her breathing became erratic, his ability to quiet her less sure. You saw the challenge in his eyes (stop me—say something—you wouldn't dare) as the woman became ever more undone. Then, as she unraveled—her cries unleashed to echo through your scholarly sanctuary—he smiled a wolfish grin that only you could see.

The spell broke. You fled.

#

You paced the perimeter of your room, chewing on your thumbnail as you did so. The book you had taken from the library sat on your desk, a two-thousand-page reminder of the sin you'd seen. And the sin you'd committed.

You couldn't tell anyone, of course. Such an accusation (against a prince and your betrothed's brother, no less) would only sully your own fragile reputation. Neither could you risk that Loki would tell anyone, as he could tell them anything he pleased. It was his word against yours.