Chapter 1

In the leadup to Thor's Coronation, Loki found that discontentment dogged him in all he did.

He frowned down at the wench presently beneath him. She was a terrible actress. Her discomfort showed in the stiffness of her posture and her half-hearted moans. It was becoming more common with each bedwarmer he called upon. He could see that he was a chore to them from the moment they appeared, in the flicker of disappointment in their eyes when they saw it was he who had summoned them, and not his mighty brother or the dashing Fandral or some high-ranking brute in Asgard's army. They went through the motions with him like cold dolls.

With a sharp sigh he snatched up the bell by which she'd been summoned. With a jingle she vanished from the sheets, and Loki slumped into his pillows, settling in for another restless night lost in the labyrinth of his schemes.

This remedy hadn't been Loki's first resort. It was only after he had exhausted all other mindless meditations and sedative salves, short of anaesthesia, to silence his relentless ruminations enough to sleep that he'd become desperate enough to finally take up the Warriors' jesting suggestions that it was only the relief of a bedwarmer that would truly bring him rest.

The following morning, the Prince was in the pleasure parlour demanding someone different. He glanced around the tawdry rooms, scanning the array of lounging fallen beauties sold into service by their families for knowing a man before they were wed.

Through a trailing haze of incense vapour, a dark speck drew his eye. She sat cross-legged upon the cushioned seat in a nearby window, her eyes trained on the pages of a book in her lap. Another maid rested behind her, determinedly drawing the dense waves of her ebony hair into an intricate braid across the side of her head, exposing the cream skin of her shoulder. She looked vaguely Vanir, he thought as his observation wandered over her petite form, provocatively swathed in a sheer lilac gown that clung to generous curves. Despite herself she persisted with her reading as if in protest of her companion's ministrations, her sleek brows drawn into a scowl against each tug of her locks. Her eyes smouldered with kohl like warpaint, warding off the appetites of most men. But there were no men like Loki.

The amusing sight pulled his lips into a smirk. 'That one,' he indicated to the Madame with a nod toward the window.

'Oh no, Your Highness,' the Madame objected. 'She's newly acquired and is yet untrained. Perhaps I can suggest –'

'Who better to teach her my ways? Pierce her,' he instructed, referring to the navel jewel that branded palace bedwarmers.

The woman bowed her braided head. 'Yes, Your Highness.'

By evening, Loki returned from supper to find a tiny silver bell resting on his bedchamber desk. He read lounging in an armchair by the fire a while, occasionally glancing from the pages to the waiting bell beside him. When the text began to swim in his normally sharp vision, he found himself tempted by the bell's promise sooner than he'd intended.

Setting the book down, Loki stood and took up the shiny new bell. He smoothed his tunic, and ran a swift hand through his hair, slicking back an errant strand. Then he released a steady breath and swivelled his wrist.

At the toll an unsteady figure appeared with a gasp, and stumbled before him. He darted forward to receive her into his arms. She peered up at him as he steadied her back onto her feet, her eyes wild with shock. He searched for disappointment, for disgust, but found only naked alarm. It was a start.

'Good evening,' greeted a silky voice. Sigyn's eyes shot up to regard the man who would have her this night.

Her skin prickled. She had been summoned by the dark Prince – the night to his brother's day. Scholar, strategist – sorcerer. Silvertongue. She had only seen the mysterious second son at a far distance, dressed in ceremonial armour with his face obscured by a horned helmet. She gazed up at him now, and found herself stricken by sharp pale features set with sleek raven hair, dark as her own. He looked refined and deadly as a bird of prey.

She broke her stare. 'Your Highness,' she breathed and dropped into a curtsey, her heart now thudding unevenly beneath her breast. She'd never been anywhere near royalty. She rose, glancing around the Prince's chamber. It was furnished in dark polished wood, and the bluestone walls lined with green and gold tapestries. Her attention was quickly drawn to an ornate four-poster draped in emerald and laden with dark furs. The room smelled of leather and ink and musty parchment. Like the great library, she thought, and her heartbeat steadied.

'Here.' A goblet appeared in his hand, which he promptly passed into hers.

She lifted it to her lips, but paused. 'What's in it?'

'Just wine,' he assured her. 'I promise.'

She took a hesitant sip and he asked her name.

The tall Prince then took a seat, levelling his gaze to her shorter stature. 'Sigyn. I am a fitful sleeper. I've tried every remedy in the Realm to find rest with no satisfaction. May I call upon you to warm my bed when my sleep is troubled?'

True enough, faint shadows were bruised beneath his jade green eyes as they implored her so earnestly. A flawless diplomat. She faltered in her answer, her brows knitting in confusion. 'I didn't believe we had a choice,' she dared in a tone kept carefully pacific.

'You do,' he played firmly.

Her confusion deepened. This was not the interaction she'd been hastily prepared for. She still burned – the emerald jewel in her belly, the contraceptive potion in her throat, and the Madame's rushed advice in her ear. 'Why?'

'I've found I cannot enjoy the company of those who do not enjoy mine,' His Highness explained. 'Others have proven disappointing, to say the least.'

She hesitated for a moment, deciding whether or not to provide the answer to his dissatisfaction. Then she offered furtively, 'They fear your seidr.'

His lips jerked into a resigned sneer. 'Is that so. And do you?'

A lie leapt into her throat, but died on her tongue. Her eyes fell to his boots. 'No,' she admitted in a whisper.

Immediately, his interest was piqued and he leant forward in his chair. 'Show me something,' the Prince requested.

Sigyn glanced up at him sharply, his invitation alerting her to waning instincts. Shows of her talent had never been called upon – rather, met with discomfort and distrust. Her hand curled to a fist at her side.

Suddenly the fireplace and all the torches were extinguished, plunging them into darkness. A moment later, violet flames flared in their place. The light illuminated her storm grey eyes, before dimming to a low flicker, her gaze with it.

He cocked his head, regarding her with curiosity. 'You should be in Vanaheim, being tutored.'

She stared into the fireplace. 'I should.' Bitterness steeled her voice.

'What happened?' he probed.

The fire he had seen flare briefly in her eyes returned. 'I was betrothed. I didn't care,' she declared haughtily.

If there was one way to annul your betrothal to a man you didn't want, it was to be spoiled by a man you did. Sigyn drew her bottom lip between her teeth, remembering how she had teased the stable hand until he bent her over a bench with her skirts pushed up to her hips and took her burning maidenhood for himself, until his cream spilled down her thighs and she was thoroughly sullied. Whether it was an entirely sound decision remained to be seen.

Prince Loki arched an eyebrow at her implication. 'And look where it got you,' he taunted, a sly glint in his eye.

Far from feeling shamed, the corner of her mouth quirked cheekily. 'You're not so bad, Your Highness,' she returned.

He hissed with laughter. 'I can see myself enjoying your company,' he confessed. 'If you would share it.'

Sigyn's expression softened. Her first master was far more charming than she'd expected. 'I'm considering it,' she admitted, and then, in resignation to her fate, raised her hand to return the flames to their natural state.

The Prince was suddenly gone. She immediately felt him at her back, her hand now captured by his. 'Leave it,' he murmured coolly. 'It's beautiful.'

Something stirred in her blood as his breath brushed her bare shoulder, and she felt the tensed muscles in her back melt in submission. And just like that, his spell was cast.

He lowered her hand. 'I'm retiring,' he announced. 'Join me if you wish.'

He made to withdraw, but Sigyn gripped his long fingers before they slid from hers. 'Why me?' she questioned hastily. 'I've no training.'

'I wanted something of my own,' was his cryptic reply. Then he added, 'Know this, Sigyn. If you join me, I will force nothing on you. But you'll be touched by no other. You will be mine.'

He lingered beside her with his hand still in hers – until she realised he was waiting on her to release him and her heart lurched in her chest. Their hands broke apart, and Sigyn twisted to peer at him through a fall of hair as he sidled over to the canopied bed, snuffing out the torches with a wave of his hand as he went. He turned away and vanished his attire, drawing her gaze to the lean contours of his shoulders as he leant to throw back the covers. He boasted none of his brother's bulk, hinting at more mysterious strengths. Desire bloomed in her blood, intoxicating as the wine she'd sipped.

Despite her mesmerised instincts, Sigyn endeavoured to consider her options. The Prince offered an attractive arrangement, in which she would not have to submit to the lust of countless repulsive nobles. Her father had called her a whore for succumbing to the attentions of a stable hand. Now, she could lay with a powerful sorcerer from whom she might pick up a trick or two.

Her bare feet crept forward.

The dark linen was silk-soft on her skin as she slid beneath the weight of the coverlet and settled against one of many pillows. Lain beside him, Sigyn took a few moments to steady her breath, before she enquired, 'What troubles your sleep, Your Highness?'

'Rumination,' he answered.

'What does a Prince think about?' she wondered aloud.

'His situation.' Already the tangled threads of fate unwound behind his eyes, demanding a neatly mapped strategy anticipating every possible outcome in the tapestry of events unfolding around him.

Sigyn stared up at the lush canopy above her. 'I don't think I'd mind your situation, myself,' she shared.

In the dim firelight she saw his hand rise to massage his temples wearily. 'You've no idea, little crow.'

Odin had his ravens. Loki would have his own.

The sobriquet tugged Sigyn's lips into a grin. She thought of how a forced engagement had snatched away her aspirations, driving her to desperate desires that left her life in ruin, only for her to stumble into the bed of one Prince of Asgard. 'Well, I suppose even royalty can't control for everything,' she advised. 'Sometimes all you can do is react.'

'I can't afford to conduct myself as recklessly as yourself, Lady Sigyn. In fact,' the Prince lectured, 'You would do well to learn in future to consider more carefully the ways you manoeuvre yourself towards your ambitions.'

'… So I can lie awake all night plotting my rise and fall?' she teased in return.

He huffed a sigh. 'Spare me your sensible wisdom.'

'Something to distract you then. Can I show you a ritual of my mother's that soothed me to sleep as a child?' she suggested.

'Very well.'

'Turn to your side,' Sigyn bade him. She reached through the sheets for his back as it faced her, and tentatively set near-trembling fingertips to his skin. He remained still, so she drew them down incrementally, hesitant to touch him. She squeezed her eyes shut, chiding herself, He wouldn't have branded you if he didn't want you to touch him.

The taut muscles beneath her fingers relaxed. 'Please continue.'

Releasing a tense breath, she began to caress his back with featherlight brushstrokes, eventually daring to expand her reach across his shoulder and down his bicep. To her relief, she felt him expel a few slow, deep breaths as he succumbed to her attentions. A leathery musk wafted from his skin, and she couldn't help but sniff the tinged air with sly curiosity, rolling her lips together in appreciation.

As she listened to the rhythm of his breath as it slowly went shallower, Sigyn drifted, lulled by the faint flicker of violet fire.

True to his word, Prince Loki made no move on her in the night. Having arrived in his quarters fraught with anticipation, Sigyn felt somewhat disappointed.