Taryn awoke with the kind of headache that makes self-decapitation sound like a good idea.
She groaned and raised a hand to her forehead–or at least, she tried to raise a hand to her forehead. Chain clinked and a cold constriction around her wrist prevented the movement and that was enough to make her open her eyes.
Light stabbed her cruelly, momentarily blinding her before it was cut off by the shadow of someone leaning over her. "Relax. You're safe," a man told her.
She squinted and could just make out short, light-brown hair and sharp blue eyes. "I'm handcuffed," she said, realizing it as she tugged ineffectually again. Panic and anger rose in equal measure. "How is that safe?"
"Just to keep you from doing anything stupid before you were fully awake," he replied, and to her shock, he reached down and unlocked the cuffs. "No one here will hurt you."
Oh, how she wished she'd dreamed all this! But as her vision cleared, she recognized one of the men who'd stood at Loki's shoulder when he'd kidnapped her from her lecture hall. "Who are you? Where are we?" She didn't really expect answers, but it was in her nature to question. Still, she had to force the last one out. "Where is he?"
"I'm Clint Barton. We're in a safe place. And the big guy is currently out."
Yet another surprise, that he'd actually answered! "The big guy, huh," she repeated dryly as she struggled belatedly into a sitting position on the edge of the cot–well, if they weren't going to call him Loki, she certainly wasn't. Her head screamed with pain at the movement and she groaned again, cradling it in her hands. This felt exactly like the concussion she'd had last year after a bike crash, which made sense. She sure as hell hadn't fainted on her own. "Which one of you broke my skull?" she asked, feeling around for lumps.
"No one, but he said you might wake up with a headache." She heard the scuff of a step, a soft clink, and another step as he returned and crouched down beside her. "He left this for it."
Taryn cracked an eyelid open to see Clint holding out a little glass vial. The liquid within it was a vivid, poisonous green, and if her eyes weren't playing tricks on her–something she wasn't certain of, the way it was throbbing–was it actually glowing? "Oh, I am not drinking that."
He shrugged. "Up to you," he said, apparently unconcerned. "He said it'd take care of your headache, though."
"Yeah, it looks like it." Taryn closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her drawn-up knees. "It looks like it'd take care of it fatally."
"Hey, didn't I tell you no one here would hurt you? I wouldn't give you something toxic."
"Forgive me if I don't believe my kidnapper," she grumbled back. She wished he'd stop talking and go away. His deep voice was playing hell with her migraine.
She heard him sigh as if exasperated with her stubbornness. "We've got orders," he said after a moment, and if he really was frustrated, none of it showed in his tone. "You've got the run of the place. No one will lay a hand on you. We're to get you anything you want."
Taryn lifted her head again and stared at him in disbelief. "Great. Tell me how to get out of here," she said sarcastically.
He pointed over his shoulder at the barely-open door. "Down the corridor, third left, up the ramp, another left, then a right and a ladder. You'll come out on the street."
Now she literally gaped at him. "You're not funny," she said, but despite knowing that this had to be a trick, she filed the information away. Third left, ramp, left, right, ladder, street. Just in case. "You'd really let me walk right out of here?"
He nodded, but he was frowning now. "I'd rather you didn't, though. If you did, we would be punished."
"Punished?" The word reminded her of after-school detention, groundings, withholding of allowance money. It didn't fit with this muscular tough-guy at all.
He nodded, and now there was genuine worry in his expressive eyes. "The boss isn't forgiving."
Understanding dawned with a clench of her stomach as Taryn remembered her computer and overhead screen exploding in a flash of blue light, and the horrific scene of punishment they had shown in the instant before their destruction. Would a man who'd endured such terrible torture inflict it on others? The insanity in his eyes said he would. "I won't leave," she whispered, a wave of nausea rising to join her head in making her miserable.
His face split in a grin of pure relief. "Thanks. I appreciate that." He held out the little glass vial again. "This really won't hurt you, you know. You mean too much to him. He wouldn't do that to you. Are you sure you don't want to take it? You look like hell, if you'll forgive my honesty."
She shook her head, then regretted it. "I'm not drinking that," she repeated firmly. "And I can't mean that much to him–I don't even know him. I'm not taking anything on faith."
He placed the vial carefully on the rickety wooden table beside her cot. "If you change your mind," he just said mildly, then stood. "Anything I can get you?"
She started to tell him to just leave her alone, then reconsidered. "Some ice would be good," she finally said. Some aspirin would be better, but she wasn't going to take any pills offered by the people who'd kidnapped her. An ice pack would at least offer some relief. "And a bathroom?"
"Sure. This way," Clint replied, and he had her hand and tugged her to her feet–her shoes were gone, she belatedly realized–before she could yank it away from him. She would have to remember how fast he could move. He led her out the door and opened the door across a dank, dimly lit concrete hall that looked like something out of a horror movie. "Right in here."
It looked like he planned to accompany her inside. "I can take it from here," Taryn said quickly, holding up a hand. Definitely not going to pee in front of this guy, nope. "Why don't you go menace someone else for a little while, okay?"
He frowned a little but nodded. "There's a call button beside the door back in your room," he said. "Push it if you need anything. We'll come."
Not comforting, but Taryn nodded. Anything to get him to go away. He turned and walked away, leaving her alone, and she entered the bathroom and locked the door behind her, shaking.
The reflection in the mirror showed her too-pale face beneath lank red hair. Purple circles ringed her wide light-brown eyes. "What the hell, what the hell am I doing here," she breathed, asking her reflection as if it would have any answers. This was surreal, something out of a nightmare. Things like this just didn't happen outside of movies.
She stayed in the bathroom so long, she was certain someone would come and demand to know what she was doing. But no one did. She washed her face, used the toilet, found a toothbrush and comb and tried to repair some of the damage, cupped her hand under the faucet and drank and drank and drank. When she was done, she felt marginally better, her headache helped somewhat by the hydration, but the questions still remained.
Gathering her courage, she finally left the bathroom. A pair of heavily-armed men in black combat fatigues marched past, cradling automatic rifles, and she shrank back against the wall in fear. But they didn't so much as acknowledge her. She darted across the corridor, the damp tiles unpleasantly cold on her bare feet, dove into the room where she'd awakened, and slammed the door behind her. Breathing hard, she leaned her forehead against the flaking, painted metal surface, shaking all over.
"You didn't drink your potion."
She let out a little shriek and spun around. Loki stood beside the cot, frowning, the vial held in one elegant, long-fingered hand. "What?" she gasped.
He held it out. "You didn't drink your potion," he repeated. "Did you not awaken feeling ill?"
His unexpected appearance had sent adrenaline pumping through her body. Her headache screamed back, twice as intense as before, and brought along a wave of dizziness. "Why does everyone want me to drink that crap so badly?" she demanded–or tried to demand. Her voice came out weak and plaintive.
She didn't see Loki move, but in the blink of an eye, he was at her side. One arm went around her waist, steadying her against his body. "Because it will make you feel better," he replied, that smooth, velvet voice soothing her aching head in a way Clint's had not. "This is a valuable healing potion, you know. I'm sacrificing for you. You should appreciate it."
She managed to break her shocked paralysis enough to turn her face away when he raised the uncorked vial toward her face. "No," she said, both hands now planted on his shoulders, pressing away from him, heart beating like a trapped rabbit. This close she couldn't ignore his strength or his scent–like fresh-cut grass or crushed herbs, something green and sharp, and the ionic smell of a blizzard. "I don't want it."
He frowned down at her. "You distrust my motives." It wasn't a question.
"Well, duh."
His frown deepened and she regretted baiting him, but all he said was, "You study the old tales, do you not?"
It took her a moment to switch mental gears and realize he was speaking of mythology. "Yes," she replied slowly, still suspicious.
"And what do the tales tell you of Loki, little mortal?" he pressed. "When his word is given?"
Taryn stared at him for a long moment. "Loki never broke his word," she finally admitted. "Even when it would have spared him from pain or humiliation to do so."
He nodded. "And I give you my word now. This potion will not harm you in any way."
And he thought he was Loki. She watched him, considering, frightened, wishing he would release her and shaking so badly she wasn't sure she could stand unaided if he did so. Should she trust him? Obviously not. But she remembered his anger when he'd lashed out at her computer, the instant rage in his eyes when she'd declared Loki a myth. She didn't want to trigger that again.
After a moment he growled, clearly frustrated. "Your refusal to believe vexes me, woman. Look," he snapped, and released her abruptly. She fell against the door as he suddenly drew an oddly shaped knife from nowhere. Before she could react, he dragged it over his own palm, cutting deep. He flicked his fingers and the knife disappeared. Then he tilted the vial over his bleeding palm, letting a few drops of the green liquid fall onto the gaping wound. With a little sizzle, the slash melted away, leaving intact skin behind.
"There," he snarled, lifting his hand and holding it before her face, forcing her to acknowledge the healing. "Do you believe now?"
Taryn finally nodded. That it had been a real injury wasn't in question–she'd seen the tendons and muscles exposed by that cut, and streaks of blood still marked his palm. If the liquid in the vial was poison, he wouldn't have poured it onto his own cut and risked harming himself. And there was no way she was going to think her way out of this with such a horrific headache. Still, her hand trembled when she took the vial from him and lifted it to her lips.
The potion had very little flavor–it tasted of clear water, perhaps with just the faintest touch of mint. That was a relief because she'd been fearing the worst. It hit her stomach and seemed to spread outward in a soothing, cool wave, erasing pain everywhere it touched. The cessation of her headache and nausea were enough to make her feel weak again. "Thank you," she said, begrudging him the words but remembering that knife and the unflinching way he'd used it. It would be foolish to be rude and risk angering him.
He relaxed a little. It only drew her belated attention to how tense he'd been before. "You are welcome," he replied, inclining his head to her. "I take care of what's mine, Taryn."
"I'm not yours." The words were out before she could stop them. She raised her chin, following the declaration with a show of confidence she didn't truly feel–she felt scared, and lost, and uncomfortably trapped between him and the door, but that would get her absolutely nowhere. Infusing her voice with firmness, she repeated, "I'm not yours."
He smiled easily. "Perhaps not yet," he replied as if her objection was amusing, a little thing of no consequence. "But you will choose me."
She frowned. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
He reached out and cupped her face in his hands–she banged the back of her head against the door trying to jerk away, but there was nowhere to go. "I will show you," he murmured, and ignoring the desperate push of her hands against his chest, he kissed her.
