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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Tarryds sinister smirk as he wields a hot glowing rod appears behind my closed eyes, forcing me to jolt awake, my scream loud and piercing. I gaze around my unfamiliar surroundings, finding myself sitting up in an unknown bedroom.
Immediate dread fills me. The last bed I woke up in was my own, and I was already prepped, washed, and dolled up like a common whore, all in preparation for Tarryds sickening desires.
I slowly look down at my body, praying I don't find myself cleaned up again. Only for my heart to sink when I find that I am. I've been neatly done up once more, my wounds dressed, my body smelling of floral scents.
But being clean only makes me more vulnerable to Tarryd, and my stomach churns. Where is a bucket of excrement when I want one?
Believing I'm about to see him walk through the door, I quickly throw the bedcovers off my legs and jump out of the grand four poster bed. My knees immediately give way, and I fall to my hands and knees, a searing pain shooting through my shoulder.
With my heart racing and adrenaline coursing through me, I pick myself up, grabbing a solid silver candlestick as I make my way towards the door. With no time to be cautious, I twist the handle and peer outside.
To my surprise, no guards surveil my door, and the hallway is pleasantly bright, the sun shining through large windows dressed in regal fabric. I creep out of the room, my bare feet making no sound as I move down the corridor, the candlestick gripped tightly in my hand, ready to strike if necessary.
The atmosphere is quiet, almost serene, but my heart continues to pound, unable to rest.
As I turn a corner, the grandeur of the place becomes more evident with each step I take. Elegant tapestries and beautiful oil paintings line the walls, stretching the full length. With every breath, I detect the faint aroma of lavender wafting through the air, blending with the fresh floral scents that linger on my skin.
Where am I?
This isn't my palace.
Another shooting pain cripples me and I grasp my shoulder, stopping my strides to inspect it. Fresh blood seeping through the clean gauze indicates a recent wound and I wrack my mind, trying to remember my most recent memories.
Fawler. Elves. Leon.
The recollection of being chased by elves flood back to me, and I recall the moment I crossed into Asgard, falling into the arms of a man with scraggly blonde hair.
"I think he may be dead."
The haunting words from the tavern rattle in my ears, and the image of Leon's hunched, bloodied body enters my mind.
"I think he may be dead."
The words keep replaying over and over in my head, and I struggle to breathe, gasping for air as the weight of my grief bears down on me like an anchor. My chest tightens, and suddenly the corridor spins, the once bright walls now seeming to close in, suffocating me.
