CHAPTER 2

I've never been an aggressive person. Call it cliché, but there is a reason why I became a doctor. I don't like hurting people, or allowing people to be in pain. I'm passive to the verge of cowardice. I'm always the one who backs down in arguments, resulting in more than one boyfriend figuring out what a nice little doormat I make. I never even got to break up with them – they dumped me before I found the courage.

And my personal version of vengeance against the man who ruined my life is to come down here three times a week and do his laundry. I begged my way up a long line of progressively more important people until finally I was standing in front of Director Fury himself, struggling to explain why I need this job.

Beyond the fact that it's one of the few jobs left in the world that I could qualify for, it's also my passive-aggressive way of making Loki look at what he's done to me. I don't care if he doesn't care. I just need him to see it. I need to be satisfied that he knows.

I was too cowardly to confront a demi-god and say all that, of course, but the Director had understood and promised to explain to Loki exactly who I once was. That was almost a year ago, and even though Loki has never acknowledged what he did or apologized, I was satisfied with my 'revenge'. It meant signing a whole lot of frightening contracts and earning a pretty pathetic salary, but it was worth it for the closure.

At least, before today.

Men in dark uniforms surround Loki's cell, faces hidden by dark cowls. All of them are armed. Their path of blood trails down the long corridor behind them. I don't really have friends here, but there are familiar faces that flash through my mind and I pray for their safety. These men, grim faced and silent, have caused Loki to smirk the most satisfied smirk I had ever seen, his cheekbones lifting into sharp relief above his wide, thin lips. His green eyes sparkle malevolently.

And I realize that even if I somehow manage to escape Loki, my chances of survival with these men is minimal at best. I don't know what would be worse – death by firing squad or death by psychopathic magician. Somehow, I doubt the choice will be mine.

I clasp my hands together. I've never really been religious, which seems to be quite a common thing among medical practitioners – at least the jaded ones.

But please, God, I don't want to die down here.

I watch from my corner, frozen by fear, as a tall man pushes through the crowd and pulls his cowl away from his face. He looks middle-aged and grim. He falls into a low bow.

"My Lord," he says with what sounds like sincere respect. Loki has a shit-eating grin on his face at the address, and inclines his head with such regal pomp I'm almost sure he's mocking Grim-Face and himself.

"Greetings," he says, spreading his hands in false welcoming, "What brings such fine gentlemen to my humble abode?"

Grim-Face seems about to answer when he catches sight of me – an unimpressive sight, to be sure. I'm still huddled under Loki's comforter, trying to make myself look as small as possible – and frowns heavily. "You didn't kill the girl," he states and I stiffen. No, no, no, no, no, don't point that out to him you sick freak!

"Haven't I?" Loki says, sounding surprised and thoughtful. He turns to glance at me over his shoulder with raised brows. I shrink back and he's smiling again. "Must have slipped my mind." His glittering eyes make me feel cold inside.

I swallow uneasily as Grim-Face scowls. "Kill her. She has no part in this."

My breath hitches and I feel myself beginning to hyperventilate once more as Loki shrugs and comments, "If you insist." He raises a hand in my direction.

I bolt for the bathroom door, the only place that could put some sort of barrier between Loki and me, flimsy as it may be. But my legs promptly get tangled in the comforter and I fall out of sight behind his bed. My elbows knock painfully on the wooden floor, but I waste no time trying to crawl away. My entire body is shaking and I've never been so afraid. My mind is screaming but all I manage to produce are whimpers and desperate grunts.

Then I feel something – a strange tingling over my skin – and an invisible force grabs hold around my torso. I finally produce the scream that had been caught in my throat as my body is lifted off the floor and I'm slammed backwards into the bookshelf, my feet dangling at least a foot off the floor. I realize that I sound nothing like the female screams I've heard on TV. I sound like a creature, not a person. A creature made of fear and pain. I make eye contact with Loki, who still stands across the room, apparently holding me up with the Force, and frantically shake my head until my hair begins to fall loose from my ponytail, sticking to the cold sweat on my forehead.

I'm begging and screaming incoherently for my life. "No, no, no NO! Please no, no, god, please, don't, please!"

I begin to sob hysterically, struggling to breath. Grim-Face and his men watch with obvious excitement and anticipation, shifting about restlessly. I don't want to feel any more pain. I don't want to die. All I can think of is how devastated my parents will be when they realize I'm gone. I've been so distant from them since my life turned inside out, but I still called them every week and made sure to visit as often as possible. I loved them so much and they loved me.

I'm already starting to think in past tense. My crying subsides as I give in to despair, and it is only then that I hear Loki's soft laughter. I sniffle and open my eyes. He gives me a look I can't decipher and lowers his hand. I find myself unceremoniously dropped to the floor, where I promptly crumple into a heap. I lay there, breathless, and stare at Loki's legs from my view under the coffee table.

He turns back to Grim-Face with a snicker, as if he hadn't just given me nightmares for the rest of my life - however long that may be. "Perhaps later," he tells Grim-face, sounding amused, "Good help is so hard to find on this planet." He suddenly turns and looks at me sharply, halting my feeble attempt to escape once more to the relative safety of the bathroom. "Stay right there, darling," he says. I blink at him tearfully and we hold eye contact for a moment that feels far too long. He seems to be waiting for something, so I nod my head quickly. He gives me another one of those smiles that seem too boyish to belong to him and I lower my gaze in misery.

I can't help the shudder of relief that flows through me when he starts talking to Grim-Face again, sapping all the energy from my limbs. I'm alive – and I can't believe it after my pitiful, hysterical display. Tears and snot run down my face and I still can't regulate my breathing. I want to throw up, but I resist the nausea.

I hate Grim-Face and Loki and all of them, for watching me while I begged for my life. For getting off at the sight. I want them all to drop dead or burst into flames or kill each other off. I kind of want to kill them myself.

But I've never been an aggressive person. So instead, I wipe my snotty, teary face clean on Loki's comforter.

Maybe later I'll blow my nose on his favorite pillow.