Chapter 14
Loki smirked as he watched the mortal fall into sleep, but the smile softened into something more tender, unbeknown to him, before his lips settled back into a thin tight line.
He wondered whether he should just leave. Leave now. She would wake refreshed and healed and perhaps believe she had dreamed it all. Dreamed him.
It had never been his plan to interact openly with mortals anyway. The very idea appalled him. He had intended to use his invisibility and shape shifting to (reluctantly) mingle amongst them and do whatever good might fulfil his mother's wishes.
But the consequences of conjuring and wielding such powerful magic had altered his plans slightly. He hadn't expected to be incapacitated. He had assumed the incantation would either be an outright success or kill him instantly. He had been careless, he realised that now, negligent. Though in his defence, he had not entirely been of sound mind when he had made his escape.
He looked back at the mortal, weighted with indecision. His eyes wandered over her peaceful form. That enchanting flame-red hair spilling out across the pillow in wild abandon. That delicate profile with the long curling lashes. The milky white skin with its endearing flush and sprinkling of dusky freckles.
His eyes drifted lower, down the crisp white blouse, remembering how warm and soft her bare skin had felt beneath his hands. She hadn't been quite as emaciated as he was expecting, but she had still looked...fragile. He could not deny that she had mettle, and heart, he would even concede to admiring her for it, but there was an unmistakable air of fragility hiding just below the surface.
Remembering the scar he had seen across her wrist he sought it out, but it was hidden from view. There had only been one scar though, her other wrist unmarred. He wondered what had happened. Had someone stopped her in time. Or had she changed her mind? He hoped it was the latter, for he did not like to think of her trying to take her own life.
Loki blinked in shock, feeling slightly disorientated.
What madness was this?
He was feeling...concerned?
Protective?
Aghast, he shook away such sentiments.
It seemed that dying had addled his brain!
She was nothing but a petty mortal, he reminded himself yet again, like it were some mantra, words that had to keep being repeated to reinforce the fact that he was a god and she was beneath him.
She was not worthy of such attention.
Yet he continued to watch her.
Sighing his frustration, he dragged a hand through his hair, brows heavy.
But he did feel...grateful. Albeit, grudgingly so.
She had cared. Genuinely. Regardless of who or what he was. He had sensed no deception.
And he didn't think it had just been fear that had driven her to...be kind.
He frowned his confusion. Such compassion seemed so incomprehensible to him. So foreign. It made no sense.
She made no sense.
But it intrigued him.
She intrigued him.
Damn her.
When she stirred slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible beneath her breath, despite his vexing deliberations, a smirk tugged at his mouth again.
He had only planned to heal her but had found himself simultaneously evoking a second incantation, driven not only by his mischievous side, but a sincere desire to calm her further. Despite her fleeting moments of defiance, she had been coiled so tightly with nerves he feared she might snap at any moment.
That particular incantation had evolved from one he had initially conceived for his mother. Though she tried to hide it he knew she was often tense when he, Thor or Odin went off on skirmishes or into battle and he created it to relax her. Over the centuries, however, he had tweaked and adapted it for other, more carnal, purposes.
His smirk deepened. Many of his past bed partners had enjoyed it, although their experiences had been much more intense. But he didn't think the mortal would have appreciated anything too intimate, given the circumstances.
His smile wavered when he remembered her initial reactions. Though she had been far too weak to fight him, her mental terror had been tempestuous, almost palpable in the air. She had believed he was going to dishonour her.
His eyes narrowed angrily. As if he would ever need to force a woman. Or would force them. He had done many things in his long life, but not that. Never that.
His gaze continued its appraising, over the gentle swell of her behind, down her long slender legs. He swallowed uncomfortably. It had been some time since he had lain with a woman. Not since he had discovered his true heritage. What woman would want to lie with such an abomination?
Finding out one was a monster was not good for one's libido.
He could almost see a humorous side to it now.
A shiver ran down his spine, icy cold.
Almost.
He had also been rather preoccupied with other things. An eternity (it seemed) of falling through space and time, a reluctant alliance with Thanos and the Other. New York and the Avengers. He grimaced. Disaster after curs-ed disaster. Not exactly the sort of chaos he relished.
Then followed his incarceration back on Asgard.
He squared his shoulders, refusing to succumb to adversity. He was in that cell no longer. He had escaped. He was free.
He was...
His shoulder's slumped.
...Stuck on Midgard.
He glanced back at the woman, remembering the soft scent of lilies.
But she was a mortal, he reminded himself irritably. Thor might have demeaned himself with that insufferable Jane Foster, but The God of Mischief had more self-respect.
He stopped. Frowned. Shook his head, perplexed.
Why was he even entertaining this ludicrous chain of thought?
He quickly turned, refusing to indulge the mortal further, hurrying down the stairs, towards the front door.
But his hand hesitated mere inches from the handle. It hovered there for several long moments, as he glared daggers through the frosted glass at the distorted garden beyond.
Should he stay or should he go?
He was sure the mortal would be glad to see the back of him.
Not that he would care, of course. Why should he care?
His hand wavered with uncertainty.
Go, he urged himself. It would be too complicated. She had been right about her talk of mirrors and reflections.
He slowly curled his fingers into a fist.
He did see his own pain in her eyes.
He squeezed his hand tighter, nails digging into his palm.
And yet...that very truth made him want to stay...
With almost a growl, he snatched back his hand and turned from the door, eyes flitting up the stairs and then back down towards the entrance to the living area.
He scowled his defeat.
He would see whether she had anything edible in her kitchen first.
Then he would go.
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