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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The horse I managed to secure from a farmer at the edge of town is old, not much of a runner, but there's a quiet loyalty in her eyes. She'll ride as long as I need her to, stand firm when commanded, and that's really all I require.
In exchange, I parted with the only thing of worth I had—my gold ring, an heirloom I was once fond of. But possessions as trivial as gold hold no meaning for me anymore. I traded it easily if it meant reaching Loki faster.
Now, as I ride through the back roads, the narrow, winding paths hidden deep within the woods, I stay cloaked in shadow, my dagger strapped firmly to my thigh, ready to release it at a moment's notice.
Time stretches, and as the minutes bleed into hours, my breath grows heavier, thickened by the mounting fear of seeing Tarryd again. The mere thought of his lustful gaze rolling over my body makes the air feel suffocating.
I remind myself I'm no longer the broken, fragile thing he once preyed on, but that doesn't stop me from recoiling at the memories—memories of the cruelty, the abuse.
A cold shiver snakes down my back, and I fight to push those thoughts away, failing miserably. But then, splitting through the stillness, comes a sound—a piercing howl that freezes my blood. It echoes through the trees, a cry meant to belong to an animal. But I know better.
It's not a beast's call, but roamers, mimicking the roar of a wild creature—a verbal signal to alert others of potential threats or found prey.
But what have they seen?
Could it be me?
My heart pounds, my mind racing with thoughts of ambushes and capture. I grip the reins, ready to spur the mare into a mad dash through the trees, when suddenly, voices carry through the air—harsh and angry.
"Hand over yer bags an' yer horses, or we start choppin' limbs!"
Someone's barking orders, and by the sounds of the slang used, it's a roamer.
I press myself low against the horse, trying to make my presence as small and inconspicuous as possible, intent on slipping by unnoticed. Frigga had warned me—don't get involved, don't play the hero if it means exposing myself. And while I may be skilled in combat, charging headfirst into a group of bandits would be nothing short of suicide.
"You cannot have my bag you, ruffians!"
My ears perk up. That voice—it's unmistakable.
"Thor..." I whisper under my breath. Now feeling compelled to take a peek.
Sliding from my horse, I utter a soft command for her to stay, then, crouching low I creep toward the source of the voices, careful to remain hidden among the trees.
"Just toss it 'ere, old man!"
"Old man!?" Thor's voice crackles with offence. "Do not mistake battle scars for wrinkles, thug!"
