A/N: Hello, hello! Sorry for the wait, schoolwork happened -_-

Answers to your questions:

When Eva said "Should I ask how you knew?" she was referring to the fact that the meal was one of her favourites. Sorry for any confusion!

Eva is twenty five years old; it's mentioned in the second chapter :)

Right, shall we begin, my lovelies?

It began as a whisper. A soft ghost of a voice, weaving its way into her mind, into her dreams. She stirred, her legs shifting in the bed, and a lulling tone wrapped itself around her dreams.

Hush, little one…

She found herself wandering down a carved stone stairway, cream in colour, wide. She was barefoot, and the off-white dress she wore was soft against her skin, loose but not shapeless. Her fingers brushed the material and felt a wide metal belt around her waist – silver, when she glanced down. Her hand ran down the stone rail as she made her way down the steps, pulled by an unseen force, and she found herself in a large hall, all the same tone as the stone of the staircase.

"Ah, there she is."

She looked up, and fear threatened to stop her heart.

Loki, sitting calmly on what looked like a marble gold-seat bench with two bull's heads at either end, dressed in a sleek black suit, with a green and gold scarf and holding a cane in his hand – a cane which glowed blue at its end. And surrounding him was a crowd of humans, clad in formal clothing. She took a step back, but Loki raised an eyebrow.

"No, Eva. Come here. Come to your King."

The humans all watched her, their stares instantly judging her. Loki's expression was serene, but a hunger lingered in the depths of his emerald eyes, and she found her feet slowly moving closer and closer to him. A smile toyed with his mouth, and she suddenly wanted to remember that curving of his lips, wanted to never forget it. Why had she thought of running? He was familiar, he was safe, he was Loki.

She reached him, and his free hand curved around her waist, thumb lightly caressing the skin beneath the folds of the dress. She looked down at him, unsure, and he laughed softly.

"Is she not delightful?" he remarked to the crowd. "So beautifully loyal to her King." He leant the cane against the side of the bench and lifted her onto his lap. She found herself holding him by his shoulders, and the smile was still there, still present upon his countenance. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and she pressed a light kiss to it, almost reverent.

"Good girl," he murmured. Her cheeks pinked, and he grasped her by her cheek, bringing her forwards. His lips claimed hers, and she sighed at the sheer dominance behind them. She willingly succumbed, and his laughter echoed in her mind.

Mine.

A sharp sting to her neck, and she gasped. But the pain was soothed by his tongue, and he gently sucked at the bite. She was utterly pliant in his hands, and though she could not see it, his eyes gleamed in triumph, and he withdrew to inspect his handiwork. A pleased smile shaped his expression, and his gaze burned into hers, searing her soul.

"You are mine. Only mine. I will take you, and claim you as my own. I will use you and possess you and ensure that no other man touches you again. You will love me as you have loved no other, and I will never let you go."

Eva jolted awake, and she sat up, breathing hard. Terror flooded her, and her hand shot up to her neck.

It was only a dream, it was only a dream –

She stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom, switching on the light. She nearly ran to the nearest mirror and frantically swept her hair aside, her eyes flitting over her skin.

Nothing.

She nearly cried with relief, and leant against the sink, shaking. He had kissed her. She had willingly let him lift her, let him sit her on his lap like a common whore. And in front of all those people!

She felt cheap. Used. Filthy. And it hadn't even been real.

But oh god, had it felt like it. She could still see his eyes, hear his butter-soft promises, feel his lips against hers.

"You cannot deny you enjoyed it."

In frustration she snatched up the ceramic toothbrush holder, whirled around and hurled it at him. Her aim was perfect, and if he hadn't caught the pot, it would have hit his face. He placed the pot on the side, merely raising an eyebrow, and she was reminded of that as she had stood before him, before his crowd of mortals.

"Your aim is exceptional," he mused, with a slight tilt of his lips. "Not bad at all, my dear lady."

"Next time it will be a knife," she seethed. "Get out. Get out right now, or I swear to god I will –"

"Do what?" He laughed, and fury swelled within her. She reached for something else to throw at him, but he strode over and gripped her wrist before her fingers could close on anything. "Now, now. Temper, my dear."

"Let go of me," she spat, struggling to free herself. He sighed, and casually slammed her up against the wall. She winced at the pain which spiked down her body, and his hand gripped her jaw, forcing her to look at him. The hatred in her eyes was delicious to him, and he could see something which she would never admit. Something which both amused and satisfied him.

"Do not lie to your King," he said softly. "I know you took pleasure in it. The state of your bed-linen alone proves that. The way you writhed in your bed, tossed, turned. I did promise I would make you do so. But as for the screams… they will have to wait."

"Where was it?" she whispered. "The hall; where was it?"

"Stuttgart, Germany. One of the very first places I conquered. Their screams and then their subjugation was so very wonderful." His smile was obscene, and his next words even more so.

"You did look exquisite, my dear. As my mortal should."

"Your mortal? Ha!" Scorn coated her tone. "I am no more yours than Aidan is my biological sibling."

"Shall we check?" He pretended to think. "You are in my residence, wearing the clothes I have provided, eaten the food my chefs prepared, enjoyed my hospitality… And I see you are wearing one of the negligées which I chose for you. Now. Would you like to amend that statement, lítteinn?"

"I will not be kept by you like some pet for your amusement!" she snapped, flushing. The soft, near-sheer robe she wore was a dark blue, reaching to just above her knees. It had called to her, and, being too tired to stumble around for her own night clothes, she had pulled the negligée from its hanger and thrown it on. She should have known it would land her in trouble. "Keep your hands off me."

"With pleasure," he murmured, releasing her instantly. She stared at him, surprised he had acquiesced.

And then it hit her. A burst of pain throughout her body, so raw and white-hot that a hoarse gasp tore itself from her throat, and her vision blurred. She clutched desperately at the wall behind her, fighting a scream of agony, and Loki's silken chuckle lingered in her ears.

And then it was over, as quickly as it had come. She felt cold tile under her fingers, and realised, horrified, that she was on her knees before him. She blinked as her vision cleared, and in desperation scrambled to her feet, staring at him as if she were a caged animal.

Loki smiled knowingly, and in a single second he slammed her back against the wall, his gaze burning with all manner of sinister emotion. Madness danced in his eyes like moonlight on water, and she suddenly saw how effortlessly seduced one might be by it. It was madness, yes, but it was so easily slipped into, and so easily revelled in. Here was a man who had always trodden the line between good and evil, and then the latter had taken him for its own.

With never a mind to give him back.

"Your heart is racing," he noted, a sickening smirk shaping his mouth. "But from what, I wonder?"

She did not answer for a moment, simply looking at him with her ever-careful regard.

"I would be a fool not to fear you," she said quietly. "But I will never give you what you want. You will never have my total surrender. Never. I promise you that now."

His hand grasped her chin, and he tilted it up, his expression cold. His eyes barely flickered as they took in every inch of her defiance. For one hideous moment she thought he would break her neck.

But then he laughed. His hand curved to run down her jaw and halt at her neck. His thumb stroked across her pulse, and he leant close to her, his breath warm on the shell of her ear.

"Remember the dream, lítteinn. You came to me willingly. You thought me safe."

"Mind games," she whispered. "False. Lies."

"But it will be true soon enough," he murmured. "And it is there that I do not lie. You know this. You will come to me. You will admit that freedom is a falsehood. And then you will kneel." His lips pressed against the hollow under her ear.

"I would rather be slain by you than fall to my knees in deference." Her voice was a ghost, and he smiled against her skin.

"Alas, I cannot grant you that. My plans for you require, unfortunately, that you remain alive."

Her blood, which should have run cold, instead burned, burned with an intensity she had never yet known, and unthinkingly she sighed.

There was a pause, and then his soft laugh sounded, causing her to realise, horrified, what had just occurred. She struggled to push him away, outraged, and he chuckled once more, his fingers skirting up her leg.

"No. Stop."

"You would think to command your King?" His tone was nothing more than amused as he pulled back to look her in the eye. She glared.

"I will not be one of your mortal whores. Not I."

"No, you are not a whore, Eva. You are but a plaything. Besides, I have not yet taken you to my bed."

"And you never will," she hissed. "Not now. Not ever. Now let me go. Go and fuck one of your harem if you must."

She heard the slap before she felt it, and the pain stung her cheek like a thousand needles, leaving her gasping, her skin throbbing and scarlet.

"You still believe I have concubines," he mused, as casually as if they were in a normal conversation, as if the slap had never occurred. "Fascinating. Is that the culture here, that your monarchs have harlots and playthings?"

"No. Not in most countries. But since you don't come from here, I wouldn't expect you to adhere to our customs," she replied, wincing from the strike, resisting the urge to cup her cheek.

"Quite right," he said softly. "I will do as I like."

Suddenly, the two of them were stood in a hall, one she recognised instantly. She glared at him.

"Stuttgart? Really? I am not even dressed properly."

The look he gave her was equal parts amused and dissolute.

"You are fine as you are, lítteinn."

"Will you stop calling me that?"

"It is unlikely."

She realised he was wearing the exact outfit that he wore in the dream, and the cane was even in his hand, being flipped lazily by its owner. The smile he wore was languid, indulgent, perhaps, and he sat upon the bench, looking up at her as though he wanted to pull her strings and have her dance his tune. Amusement was an emotion that never seemed to completely leave his face; even in his darker moments, it was there. His constant, she reasoned. He is innately mischievous and therefore finds all manner of things humorous.

"I did not bring you here for psychological observations, Eva."

"Then why?" She walked, her bare feet light on the icily-cold stone flooring, and her hand curved around the head of one of the marble bulls. "Why here? If you simply craved conversation, your quarters – or indeed mine – would have sufficed."

She could see the morning light streaming through the stained glass windows, and a yearning for freedom gripped her. But she pushed that urge away – it was pointless. He would read her mind before she could even move a step.

He turned his head, his eyes betraying nothing, only appraising her as she paused by the bull's head. His gaze rooted her to the spot. It was chilling and tempting and unreadable all at once. It was as if he were –

"Stop that," she said sharply. He raised an eyebrow.

"I do not believe there is anything to stop."

"You were searching my mind for something. It's not yours to look through."

They were interrupted by a security guard walking in. He froze at the sight of the two of them, and his face paled as he recognised Loki and began apologising profusely in German.

"Es ist in Ordnung. Gehen Sie zurück zu Ihrem Büro," Eva spoke calmly before Loki could speak. The guard blinked at her, before nodding and backing out of the room.

"My, my. You speak of my authority, when it is clear that you are just as commanding. Ordering the man to return to his office? How arrogant you are, little mortal."

Slowly, she revolved to face him, her countenance cold and somewhat irritated.

"You would have scared him to death. Something which I don't doubt you're capable of."

He chuckled, and his cane vanished as he rose lithely to his feet and stepped closer to her.

"How many languages do you speak, Eva?"

"You tell me."

"Clever girl." His finger ran down her lips. "So far I have evidence of three. Are there more?"

She smiled dryly. "You seem to ask rather idiotic things, Silvertongue. Why bait me when you already have your answers?"

She moved away from him, balancing on her toes as she danced elegantly out of his reach. As she stretched up, the hem of her negligée rose a little, exposing her toned thighs. She was fluid as she deftly made her way along the hall. It was something she did to keep calm; if her body was at ease, it helped her mind. And it was working – until a hand curved around her waist and pulled her back against soft fabrics and a hard, muscled chest.

"Quite the graceful little thing, aren't you?" he mused. "Who taught you to dance, my dear?"

"My instructor," she replied, her heart pounding once more. His hand slid to her hip, feeling the bone under soft skin and layers of satin. His fingers flexed once, before withdrawing, and she felt the solidity of his body leave her. She turned to find him watching her, and he gestured.

"Dance for me."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"One should not question their King, Eva. Dance for me."

"There is no music."

"You do not need any. I know the tune you have in your mind. Use that."

She looked at him, long and hard, before turning away from him. She began to move, light on her feet, balancing on the balls of them. She began to spin, slowly, and Loki studied every inch of her as she moved as fluidly as water, from the curve of her spine to the shape of her waist and her slender legs. It was obvious she had had lessons for several years. She spun and balanced and leapt and arched, and Loki could not tear his eyes away.

Eva was almost in a trance, the music swarming her mind, the steps as easy as if she had performed them the day before. She could feel the tune lulling her, making her its puppet. She had no control over her limbs, she was being pulled by every note, commanded by the tempo, the swelling of the violins.

A hand closed on her wrist, and she found herself against Loki's chest. She inhaled, wrenched out of her reverie, and the look in her eyes was startled. His hand released her wrist, and it skimmed her waist to press against the small of her back. His other rested against her flushed cheek, and he tilted her backwards, leaning over her. His breath licked her collarbone like a flame, causing her own to hitch, and he smiled.

"Not bad, lítteinn. Not bad at all."

He pulled her upright as he straightened, and she focused on his clothing. Gone were the overcoat and the scarf, leaving a crisp white shirt with silver cufflinks. His long hair framed his face, settling on his shoulders, and his gaze was heated. His thumb traced her cheekbone, and a soft moue of amusement fell from his lips.

"My mortal. Mine. I have barely touched you, yet see how you blush, how you gasp. Do you still believe you can resist me?"

She made to strike him, outraged, but he caught her hand easily. A grin shaped his mouth, and his words only served to fuel her anger.

"Fight me, will you? Come on – show me wrath! Show me rage!"

She slammed her hands into his chest, tearing at his shirt, pulling and tugging and glaring and kissing –

She froze.

His lips were soft but assertive, laced with a lazy dominance that had her near-sighing. Her will was almost crushed by his skill alone, but a shred of sense remained, and she stumbled back, breaking the kiss, horrified.

He was watching her, the cat who got the cream, and his eyes were dancing with mirthful satisfaction. She retreated, trembling, and he only advanced, his strides longer than her steps, easily reaching her before she could run. She halted, her eyes wide with fear, and his fingers caressed her face almost tenderly.

"My little lioness," he whispered. "What a pleasure it shall be to break you. To bend you to my will. To make you realise that I am the only one who can fulfil all that you desire. All that, and more."

He suddenly turned, walking away from her and picking up his overcoat and scarf. The glance he sent her was wicked.

"If you stand like that all day, they will start to wonder if it is another piece of art I commissioned, and they will explore you as I so plan to do. Could you bear that, my dear? Their hands all over you, touching and pressing and stroking and pushing? No. You could not. And do you know why?"

He was abruptly in front of her again, and he leant down to her ear.

"Because the only touch you will want is mine."

He straightened, and began to stroll away, the cane appearing in his hand and being casually twirled by its owner.

"Come, lítteinn," he called. "Your King wishes to return to his abode, And where he goes, you will follow…"

She stared, and then, hating every second of it, she walked.

A/N: Ehehehehehehe

Oh, I hope this didn't disappoint you *innocent smile*

Lightning xoxo