A dual pov narrative from both main characters-Loki and Annalise. If you enjoy slow burn, immersive stories, with a good plot and the long awaited spice, then stop your search. Here is the story for you!
As the newly crowned king of Jotunheim, Loki...
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It's been three long, tortuous nights since Tarryd forced me to ingest that vile poison—the memory of which continues to haunt me. But it's not the physical pain, it's the deep, searing shame that grips me, reminding me of my weakness.
Despite my best efforts, I could not suppress the agonised cries that escaped me as the torment ripped through my body, the sound of my tortured screams a cacophony of suffering heard by all, and a permanent stain on my pride.
By the time the night finally ceased and the first glimmers of dawn broke, I was utterly drained, my strength completely sapped. Only then did the blessed oblivion of sleep start to claim me, my weary body surrendering at last to slumber's embrace. But my rest was cruelly short-lived. The sudden reappearance of Tarryd and Darla jolted me violently back to alertness.
I had foolishly believed the poison was the worst of it. But their malicious inventiveness was just beginning. What followed during the last three nights proved to be the stuff of my darkest nightmares.
Now, as I lay atop the hard mattress, Tarryd not long left, every shift of my aching body causes the old springs to creak and dig mercilessly into my skin.
The darkness that surrounds me offers no solace. It's a relentless projector, replaying every excruciating moment of pain Tarryd has inflicted. Even closing my eyes provides no escape. Behind my lids, the void drags me into a nightmarish vision where he looms, smirking as he walks towards me, brandishing a glowing hot poker.
The stench of my seared flesh lingers, a smoky char embedded in my nostrils, impossible to expel. But it's not the scent itself that horrifies me. It's the grotesque reaction it provokes...
My mouth waters in response.
I have not eaten in over three days, and even before that, the meagre scraps provided were woefully insufficient.
I can't help but salivate.
Starvation is a lonely suffering. One you can't escape from. It clings to you, even in sleep, seeping into your nightmares where the gnawing hunger follows.
My desperate need to eat is so profound that pressing my face into the musty mattress and inhaling the rancid decay, still cannot mask the strong scent of my own burnt skin, and it shamefully makes my stomach growl.
With one big push, I force myself to sit up from the bed, my aching body protesting with every movement. I gaze towards the door, fixating on the tiny sliver of light spilling from underneath, yearning to be on the outside.
Loki abruptly enters my mind, and I imagine him as my saviour, striding in and rescuing me from this horrid place. The thought briefly comforts me, but soon, the crippling pangs of hunger grips me once more, and Loki fades from my mind.
A new, harrowing image pushes forth, and I'm forced to relive the moment Tarryd callously ordered his guards to dine at a table overflowing with food, while I was left to starve.
