Three nights earlier, the night they lay together and Loki woke, terrified and confused, reaching out, desperate for the contact of another soul, he had once again, in his need, come across Rachel. Her body had been there, soft and beautiful; her soul had been there, bright and shining and kind, holding itself out to Loki, loving him.

He'd latched onto that soul. Held it tight.

Tangled himself in it.

Now, using his magic, he could see the entanglement if he tried hard enough; Rachel's aura, the palest yellow, was splashed with the dark jade of his own. But he didn't need to see it. He could feel the connection.

He'd first felt it when Rachel woke, suffering the physical aftereffects of Loki's savage lovemaking. He'd felt her pain.

Amplified. It was as if he were touching a bolt of lightning; the sensations were ten times what they ought to have been. He'd apparently tapped into her feelings at their source, where they were produced in their purest, most intense state.

Then there was the emotional pain. He saw the death of her brother; that he, Loki, had been responsible for it. Saw the betrayal Rachel had felt at the sight of him destroying Manhattan. Saw her devastation that he'd hurt her yet again, that he'd taken her while she screamed in agony – and after she had freed him from the torture of the snake venom.

Her emotions led to a further torrent of memories of injustice, loss, fear. Memories of the last year, the year since he'd met her. Every terrible moment she glanced through, he experienced in terrible scale. The vicious torture. Agonizing, expensive weeks in the hospital. The infected internal suture, the hysterectomy that followed. The loss of two jobs in two months because of fear-induced panic attacks. Loss of her apartment. Poverty. Dependence on her brother. Horror at his loss. Total loneliness. Inability to form human connections. The dimming of the bright, shining soul.

It had been too much to bear. Indeed, it had kept him comatose for three days, and he only woke once Rachel had essentially recovered.

Still, he could feel the connection. Confused and disoriented, he'd thought at first she had caused it somehow. To ensnare him, hurt him. But he knew his own magical signature. And he knew Rachel. No, this was Loki's own work.

Now he was chained to a mortal, a small, breakable girl of deep emotions and endless vulnerability. It had never been done before, this sharing of souls; he'd spent the night in research. He would have to find a way to break the connection himself.

Because it was of course unacceptable. He had pain of his own, and, in any case, could not be chained to this girl. This young, naïve, senseless, broken thing.

He saw at once she would have to be hidden. Loki's enemies would be thrilled to know of her. An open nerve. As exposed an underbelly as they could ever hope to find.

Rachel asked what would happen if she died, and Loki couldn't answer, but he didn't care to find out. He would separate their souls long before Rachel had to worry about death.

But he would do it after the war. The Náir, the walking corpses, he was to fight them soon. Tonight. And he couldn't take Rachel with him. Couldn't leave her unprotected, not in Asgard, not after what he'd done. He had too many enemies, even in the palace. Especially in the palace.

So as they talked, he moved them. Rachel, he knew, couldn't sense it happening. He was unwilling to jar her, to startle her in any way, when her fear so acutely affected him. It wasn't until they'd been talking half an hour that she looked around and noticed they were in a new place.

He had shifted them through the realms without disturbing a hair on her head, and now they were in a small, beautifully appointed, modern human room. A baby grand piano was tucked in a corner; all the furniture was new, and a kitchen full of slick, touch-screen appliances was visible down a short hallway.

"I'd ask," said Rachel crisply, "but you're going to tell me where we are anyway, aren't you?"

She was trying to tamp down her feelings, but Loki was attuned to her now. He felt her sense of oncoming abandonment better than she did.

"While I lived with you," Loki said, "You know I had another life, in the underground. This was one of my several safehouses. We are in central Manhattan. The rent is paid in advance for two years. The utilities will take care of themselves. Three million dollars in unmarked bills is stacked in the cupboard left of the sink."

Rachel nodded slowly. Her emotions swamped Loki. He tried to maintain a calm expression while she came to understand the arrangement.

"Thank you," she said. "But don't…don't go yet. I just… why can't I feel your emotions? Why is it one way?"

Because Loki was the one so desperate for connection that he'd stuck a hook directly into another person's heart.

"Because magic runs through my blood, and not through yours."

"Okay."

He saw her swallowing, hesitating, and wanted to strangle her. Say it. I feel what you feel. I know what you want to ask.

But he let her wait, let the question come in its own time.

Tears welled out of her eyes, though she tried to fight them, as she asked, "Are you only getting bad feelings from this connection? I mean…can you feel anything else? Do you know…?"

"Negative feelings are stronger than positive ones. That's part of why I must free myself soon."

"Oh. Oh, I mean, yes, I understand."

"Stop," Loki heard himself say, though he hadn't meant to. "Stop it. Rachel."

The poor, beautiful, sad-eyed girl just looked at him, trying to hold herself together. "What?"

"Stop feeling this way. Stop thinking that…" By the elder gods, her pain was going to kill him. "I know what's in your heart. You're remembering the last time I left you alone. How I didn't come back for you and didn't come when you called."

"You're too important to hang with me, Loki. I told you that when we first met, remember?"

Yes, he did.

"I will return."

"To free yourself from me."

Damn her.

Loki rose. He couldn't take another moment in her presence. Her emotions were going to suffocate him. Every squeeze and twist of her heart wrung his own. Perhaps distance would… yes. He had to get away. Before he did something foolish.

The girl grabbed his hand. "Goodbye," she said. "Tell me goodbye again."

The physical connection rocked him; her feelings flowed over him, and against his will, he whispered, "Yes."

She sniffled. "Yes what?"

"Yes, to answer your question, I can feel something other than your pain. Yes, I do know what you want me to know."

Relief broke through her, and vicariously through him, like a sunbeam. An enormous smile lit up her teary face.

"Good!" she cried. "Good. Just wanted to make sure. Didn't want you going off to battle thinking nobody – "

Her hand was squeezing his, and he was wrecked, trying to block the sensations rushing through it.

Yes, he knew how much she loved him. How her love was unconditional and total, how she would always be there for him, how his pain and his damaged psyche and scars only made her love him more. How her heart came to life in his presence.

He knew he ought to leave. That the last thing in the world he needed was this. To be tied to a mortal girl, to be loved by her. To see straight into a kind, clean heart, a heart incapable of malice or vengeance, that could belong to him if he said the word.

The temptation was awful.

And the girl, damn her, damn her, damn her, caught him in a soft hug, and whispered, "I'll miss you, okay? Make good decisions. Nothing I wouldn't do. If you're considering world domination, maybe just – "

He cut her off with a kiss.

Nothing painful, hard or bruising like last time. The gentlest, barest touch of his lips to hers. She stilled. Her swirling emotions stabilized in an instant, focusing on the sensation, the pleasure of the quiet contact.

The warmth of her kindness washing over him was intoxicating. Her heart pulled at him.

If he didn't stop now, he was going to fall in love with this girl.

He didn't stop.

It was only a kiss for a long time, and a chaste one at that. He let them touch; let her fingers card through his hair, feather-light. Then he tasted her tongue, slowly, letting her breathe, letting her smile.

He could hardly caress her without hurting her, so it was Rachel who gently stripped her own clothes off, then his, kissing him all the while. It was she who pressed him backwards onto the bed, and pulled his hands to her sides, where he lightly touched her up and down, but applied no pressure.

Above him, all hair and eyes and smiles, she bent to kiss his nose. The scars above his lips. His ears. His collarbone. She placed a kiss between each prominent rib, and one to the inside of each of his thighs, before taking him in hand and stroking him, and kissing her way down his shaft.

Gods, he wanted her. Wanted to flip her over, throw her down, and take what he could. She would love him all the same, he knew. Always.

But he couldn't bear to hurt her. Not any longer. He let her pleasure him at her own speed, then climb her way back up his body. She mounted him slowly.

As she sank down on him, she winced and moaned. Her pain, an echo of Loki's abuse, knifed through him, and he sat up in a flash to catch her in his arms.

She breathed hard, trembling, and let him hold her. It took long seconds to get her through the stretch, the sting.

But she did get through it.

Wrapped in each other, with Rachel on top, controlling their rhythm, they made quiet love in a way Loki hadn't done for hundreds of years, except with her.

At sex – fucking – he was an expert. But his partners never loved him. It was only ever about physical pleasure. Or worse, part of some game, a power play, an attempt at extortion, manipulation.

Rachel was incapable of such games. She only wanted to be allowed to love him. To taste every part of the man she worshipped; to see him in ecstasy; to make him feel what he meant to her. And he could feel it. He felt he would never get enough of the feeling.

He had to be careful of her damaged flesh. The only time he gripped her tight was when he came. His face was pressed between her breasts as he kissed her sternum, and she loved it; the sensation of her vibrating around him undid him, and he couldn't help but pull her in – to try to taste a little more of her before he had to give her up.

She stayed on top of him, flushed and shaking. His warm semen dripped between them when he pulled out of her at last. Immediately he felt unanchored. Lost. And he pulled her back onto him.

Let her lie there, her lips pressed to the hollow of his throat, for he didn't know how long.

She didn't follow him when he rose to go. She had already become resigned to his loss.

But he felt her blessing fall around him like armor.

"I'll be back," he whispered. "I will. I swear it." He kissed her hand again and again. "Be safe, be safe, be safe."

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll take care of your little piece of soul. Like I take care of the rest of you."

He'd never felt like this before. Never wanted to pull a woman in and kiss her hair for hours, to stroke her with his fingers just to watch her climax. To wrap her up in his magic and stare at her forever. Bottle the light in her eyes.

Ridiculous, of course. Romance was only temporary insanity. Particularly with a mortal, and one so young. Like a drug, or a new branch of intoxicating magic. Surely the need he felt – the bliss – would fade. And when the time came, he would unhook his soul from hers without regret.

Probably.

For now, the connection didn't hurt. It was a spring of strength, a conduit for Rachel's happy, singing, sated spirit to fortify his own.

"Farewell," he said, and he vanished himself to Asgard, where Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three stood waiting outside his chamber door.