What Lies Between

by authorregretseverything

Summary:

Thor was always meant to be the alpha heir. Loki was just the spare—clever, quiet, never quite enough. But as they grow up, their bond shifts into something neither of them fully understands. And when Thor presents as an omega, everything changes. They're not blood, not really… so why does it feel so wrong to want what they want?

‼️SPOILERS IN TAGS‼️
‼️CROSS-POSTED ON MY WATTPAD ACCOUNT‼️

Chapter 1: The Spare and the Heir

Loki, aged 7 & Thor, aged 9

Loki

Thor is insufferable when he wins. Not because he gloats—though he certainly does—but because he radiates it. His smile is too wide, his voice too loud, and his very existence seems to catch and reflect every shaft of sunlight in the Nine Realms. He practically bounces as he jogs back across the training yard, wooden practice sword in hand like a prize.

“Did you see that, Loki?” he calls, still breathing heavily from the match. “Three strikes, and Volstagg couldn’t even land a hit!”

“I saw,” I reply, not bothering to look up from my perch atop the stone wall. I swing my legs idly, robes trailing around my ankles. “Though I suspect Volstagg was being kind. He likes you.”

Thor laughs—bold and unbothered. “He likes you, too.”

“No,” I say plainly, “he tolerates me. You should learn the difference.”

He tosses his head like a horse shaking off flies, golden hair sticking to his damp forehead. “You always say things like that. You're wrong, you know. Everyone likes you, they’re just too nervous to say so. Probably because you’re always making that face.”

“What face?”

“That one. The one that looks like you’re plotting to set them on fire.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I scowl. Which, I’ll admit, probably doesn’t help my case.

Thor, unaffected as ever, plants himself beside the wall and offers me his hand. “Come spar with me.”

“I’d rather not be flattened by your ridiculous swings. You swing like a wild boar with a hammer.”

“That’s power, Loki. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

I raise an eyebrow. “We’re almost the same age.”

“Barely. I’m still the eldest.”

He beams as though that carries divine weight. Maybe in Asgard, it does. He’s the heir, after all—expected to lead, expected to dominate. Everyone already assumes he’ll present as an alpha. Even the court whispers it behind their hands. His presence, his voice, his smile—they all reek of the same easy certainty that he will become everything he’s meant to be.

And I?

I’m just the spare.

Oh, I’ll have a title, of course. Prince Loki. The clever one. The sharp one. The one who always has ink-stained fingers and books in his sleeves. But I’m no heir. Not really. What I’ll become—alpha, beta, omega—hardly matters. Not when Thor is destined to shine so blindingly that no one else can be seen beside him.

“Come on,” he urges again, reaching up toward me. “Just one round.”

“I have a book waiting in the library. Ancient Vanir hexes. Very advanced. You wouldn’t understand.”

Thor groans. “Books won’t help you when Jotnar are breaking down the gates.”

“They might,” I say, smirking, “if I write the right spell.”

Thor laughs again—loud and bright and utterly unburdened. “You and your spells. One day you’ll enchant your own nose shut just to win an argument.”

“Tempting,” I mutter, but the corner of my mouth quirks upward. He always gets that out of me somehow—smiles when I don’t mean to, warmth when I try to stay cold.

“Father says I’m close,” Thor says after a moment, his voice dropping slightly as he walks beside the wall, letting his fingers skim the rough stone. “To presenting.”

I glance down at him. “He would know.”

“He said he was twelve when it happened for him,” Thor adds, as if this somehow confirms his own impending transformation. “And I’m almost ten now. I’ve already grown taller than you.”

“By half an inch,” I scoff. “It must be your swollen head weighing down your spine.”

Thor grins, undeterred. “I bet I’ll be an alpha. Just like him.”

I say nothing.

Of course he will be. Everyone expects it. He walks like an alpha, talks like an alpha, fights like one, too. He’s the very image of what the court wants—a future king who will tower over his enemies and sweep through battle like a storm.

I, on the other hand, will likely be an afterthought. Alphas are celebrated, omegas are precious, and betas… well, they’re useful. Unremarkable. I don’t know which I’ll be, and I don’t think anyone particularly cares.

Still, I say, “You might be surprised. Maybe you’ll be an omega and end up doing embroidery with the queens.”

He makes a face. “If I do, I’ll embroider my name across every shield in the palace.” I snort.

He picks up a small stone and tosses it into the grass. His expression grows thoughtful, a little more serious. “Do you ever wonder what you’ll be?”

“All the time,” I say, before I can stop myself. Then I add, “It’s pointless, though. Whatever we’ll be, we’ll be.”

“I hope you’re an alpha,” Thor says suddenly.

I blink at him. “Why?”

He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “So you don’t have to be beneath anyone. So you can… stand next to me.”

For a moment, I forget to breathe.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t understand how those words twist something deep inside me.

We’re brothers, they say. Not by blood, but in all the ways that matter. Raised together. Trained together. Crowned with the same surname and carried through the halls like two sides of a prophecy.

But we are not the same.

And if I want to stand beside him—really beside him—I will have to claw my way there.

“Come spar with me,” Thor says again, smiling like the sun.

And this time, I take his hand.

Chapter 2: A Royal Gathering

Thor, aged 11 & Loki, aged 9  

Thor

Father says I should stand taller.

“You’re nearly twelve,” he tells me this morning as he fits the ceremonial pin at my collar. “You’ll be a man before the decade ends. You must learn to carry your birthright with presence.”

I don’t tell him that the collar itches, or that the pin is crooked. I only nod. Nod and try to look like I understand.

The gathering is in the Great Hall—long tables, heavy drapery, gold that gleams like it knows it’s important. Nobles from Vanaheim and Alfheim line the outer edges, their robes floating like clouds, their jewels catching every bit of firelight.

I hate these things.

There are too many eyes. Too many names to remember. Everyone looks at me as if I’m already king, as if one day I’ll be carving my name into the bones of the Nine Realms.

They don’t see me. They see the shape of me. They see what they want me to become. Except Loki.

He stands to my left, a half-step behind as protocol demands, all in deep green and silver. His hair is tied back neatly, and his gaze flicks across the room like he’s reading it—like every person here is a page in one of his books.

He hates this even more than I do.

Still, he plays his part well. He always does. When Father introduced us—“My sons, Thor and Loki”—I saw how Loki’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. No one else would have noticed.

But I did.

I lean toward him now, my voice low. “How many of them have you already insulted in your head?”

He smirks without looking at me. “All of them. Twice.”

I grin. Suddenly, I can breathe again.

We walk the length of the hall as introductions begin. Father is booming, regal, every syllable of his voice meant to impress. Loki and I trail behind, pausing at every noble. Most bow deeply to me, and offer only a passing nod to him. I see it, every time, and it makes something twist in my chest.

He never shows if it bothers him.

But I wish he would. I wish he’d elbow me and say something snide, or roll his eyes like he does when I snore. I wish he’d stop pretending.

When we reach the delegation from Vanaheim, one of the younger noblewomen curtsies and says, “Your heir has your presence, Allfather. And the other—your sorcerer, I assume?”

Loki doesn’t flinch. He dips his head in polite acknowledgment. But later, as we sit at the high table, he’s quiet. Too quiet.

And I keep watching him.

***

The dining portion of these gatherings is worse than the introductions. At least then I’m expected to speak. Now I’m meant to sit still, smile when smiled at, and eat like I don’t notice how many people are watching.

Loki picks at his food. He's careful—always is—but I can tell he’s bored. And restless. His fingers drum lightly against the stem of his goblet, his eyes distant.

He looks small beside me. He always has, even now, even at nine. But sometimes—like tonight—I get the strange feeling he’s older than me in ways I can’t name.

“You're not eating,” I murmur, keeping my head turned just enough that it doesn’t look like we’re talking.

“I’m calculating the likelihood of this entire hall being crushed by a meteor,” he replies. “It’s going well.”

I snort under my breath.

Our plates are filled with roasted boar and greens slicked in oil. Platters crowd the space between us, and as I reach for the salt, Loki does too.

Our hands meet.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. Fingers brushing across silver. But I freeze. So does he.

His hand is smaller, more delicate. Cooler than mine. For half a second, neither of us moves.

Then he pulls away first. A little too fast. A flicker of something crosses his face—something unreadable—but when I glance sideways, he’s already focused on his plate again.

I grip the salt harder than I need to.

It’s a strange thing—how suddenly I’m aware of how close we’re sitting. Our shoulders almost touch. His scent is faint, clean like fresh parchment and frost, and it hits my nose differently than it used to. I can’t describe it, but it’s… sharper. It lingers.

I shake the thought from my head.

Across the table, one of the nobles from Alfheim raises a cup. “To the future of Asgard,” he says, “and to its noble sons.”

The toast echoes around us.

Loki lifts his goblet and drinks. I do the same, though mine is filled only with watered wine.

He glances at me afterward, as if checking to see whether I’ll say something about what just happened. I don’t. I don’t know what to say.

So I ask instead, “Still hoping for a meteor?”

He smirks, just barely. “Only if it waits until dessert.”

***

The dance begins in a whirlwind of music and silk. The nobles gather around the floor, and I can already hear the chatter of the dancers’ shoes, the subtle rustling of robes. Father’s voice calls over the sound, commanding attention, but I can’t focus on him. Not now.

Loki isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s lost in the rhythm, as always. He’s so small in this crowd, so out of place with all the gold and velvet, and yet when he moves, he holds his ground. I know he doesn’t want to dance—not with all these strangers surrounding us, not with their eyes burning through him.

But then, unexpectedly, Father claps me on the shoulder and pulls me into the center.

“Thor,” he says, with that warm authority that sounds too much like command. “Show them the grace of a prince. Dance.”

It’s a show. I know it’s a show. But all the same, I turn to Loki, my gaze locking with his.

For a moment, I think he’ll pull away—he always does, always deflects. But then, something shifts, and he takes a step closer to me. His hand slides into mine, and suddenly we’re not children anymore. Not just brothers.

There’s something different in the way his fingers press against mine, something tight and unsure.

I lead him into the rhythm. We’re awkward at first—Loki stiff, his steps too small. I guide him, turning him gently with each step until he’s more confident. His eyes meet mine, and for the first time tonight, it feels like the room fades away. There’s just the two of us, spinning across the floor.

We move in time, silently finding a rhythm that feels... right.

But something else is there, lingering in the quiet between us. I can feel it in every touch. His fingers brushing lightly against my back. The way his breath catches when I pull him in closer, just a little too close.

The music swells, and for a moment, I want to lean in, want to pull him into the soft curve of my neck, feel his lips just an inch away.

Then, in a blur, it’s over. The music changes. We stop. We both step back, almost too quickly.

Loki’s chest rises and falls in quick breaths, and I think, just for a heartbeat, that maybe he feels it too. Maybe it’s not just me.

But before I can say anything, he looks away, his face unreadable, and I follow his gaze. A servant is standing nearby, her eyes wide with surprise. She’s already seen us, already knows what’s happened.

“Prince Thor, Prince Loki,” she says with an awkward bow, her voice stiff. “The Queen is waiting for you both.”

We don’t speak. We don’t need to. We both know the moment is lost, slipping away faster than we can grab hold of it.

Loki gives a tight nod to the servant and turns quickly, his back to me as he walks toward the exit. I follow, trying to steady my heart.

But there’s a taste in my mouth now—a strange, sharp taste that I don’t know how to describe. Something's changed. I know it. I just don’t know how to fix it.

Chapter 3: Beneath the Skin

Loki

It starts with the way Thor’s scent changes.

I don’t notice it right away. At first, it’s just something… off. His usual sun-warmth and steel-sharp confidence carries a new layer—something softer, subtler. A sweetness that clings to him when he laughs, that lingers longer in the training yard. It catches on my breath and stays there.

I’m the only one who notices at first. I’m always the one who notices things.

He’s twelve now. Only two years older than me, though lately it feels like more. He’s grown taller, broader. His shoulders are starting to look like Father’s, and his voice cracks when he shouts. People look at him differently now—not like a boy, but like a prince. The prince.

And yet… that scent.

I don’t understand what it means until I see how others start reacting to it. The guards near him shift awkwardly, pupils flicking too quickly. The maids who help him dress stammer through their sentences. Even the court physician, summoned for a routine check, frowns and says nothing for a long time.

Then he whispers something to Mother behind a closed door. After that, everything changes.

Thor is being watched more carefully. Not because he’s dangerous—never that—but because he’s become delicate. Precious. Something to be protected. There are whispers in the halls now, carried on silks and silver goblets.

The Allfather’s heir is presenting as an omega.

It makes no sense. Thor is meant to be Asgard’s future king. Alphas lead. Betas advise. Omegas… support.

I don’t understand why it twists in my chest. I don’t understand why, when we train, I start pulling my strikes instead of challenging him outright. Or why my breath hitches when he grins at me, flushed from the effort, skin shining with sweat and smelling—gods, smelling so—

I tear away from him mid-match yesterday. He asks if I’m alright. I lie and say my arm aches. But that’s another lie. The ache is real, just not in my arm.

Mother says I’m early. That ten is young to show the marks of an alpha, even with my bloodline. She smiles when she says it, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s watching me now. The way I look at Thor. The way I flinch when he stands too close.

She knows.

I think Thor suspects. He’s quieter around me these days, more guarded. But still he finds me. Still he touches my arm when no one’s looking. Still he offers to spar, to walk, to stay just a little longer after dinner. As if we’re still just brothers.

But I’m not sure I want to be his brother anymore. Not when I’m this.

Not when he smells like that.

Thor

No one says it out loud. Not to my face.

But I hear it anyway—in the hush that falls when I enter a room, in the glances that dart away too quickly, in the way even Father speaks to me now with a carefulness that didn’t exist before. As if I might bruise under the weight of his voice.

An omega.

The word loops in my head like a curse, quiet and slow and poisonous. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like, but I know what it does. Wrong. Shameful. Heavy in my bones.

I hate the silence around it more than anything. Mother tries. She touches my shoulder gently when we pass and tells me I’m strong in a way that matters, but her voice is lined with softness now. That’s what I get—softness. From everyone. As if I’ve been pulled from the forge half-finished.

I can’t stand the way the guards look at me now. The way they stiffen, avert their eyes. As if they’re not allowed to see me, not really. Not now. Not like this.

And Loki…

He doesn’t look at me the same way either.

I catch him watching me when he thinks I won’t notice, sharp green eyes calculating, curious. His scent’s changing too—richer, sharper, deeper. It hits me in strange moments. In the hallway, when he brushes past me. In the library, when he leans too close. I’m not supposed to notice. I don’t want to notice. But I do.

And when we train now—when he holds back—I can feel it. That he’s testing me. That he thinks I’m weaker. That maybe I am.

I hate that I pulled my blade too late last session. I hate that he saw me wince when he got too close. I hate that I dream about the way he looked at me the night of the banquet, when the music faded and it was just us and silence and something that felt like falling.

He’s ten. I’m twelve. That gap used to feel enormous. Now it feels like it’s closing, fast. They all expected me to be an alpha. The Allfather’s heir. The warrior prince.

And now I’m… this.

I don’t know how to carry it. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.

Loki is changing too. I can see it in his posture, in the way people have started to turn their heads when he walks past. He’s growing into something sharper, more confident. I can feel the heat in his gaze now.

I wish I didn’t want to lean into it.

I wish I wasn’t afraid of what it would mean if I did.

Chapter 4: The Boundaries Blur

Thor

They whisper now.

Not just when I walk past—but about me.

About us.

It started quietly, like snow building on rooftops: a glance from a noblewoman too long to be polite, a half-smile from a councilman that didn’t reach his eyes. Then the whispers came. Slippery things, carried on the edges of silk robes and wine cups.

“The prince is an omega.”

“The younger one—he’s coming into his teeth early, isn’t he?”

“How convenient. Or planned.”

“Maybe it’s a match, not a mistake.”

I hear it in the corridors. I hear it in the training yard, from voices too far to name. Even when I look at Sif or the others, I can feel the questions forming behind their eyes. The palace is big, but not big enough to escape what people want to believe.

And the worst part is that I can’t say they’re wrong. Not really.

Loki walks beside me through the library hall, quiet as always, chin tilted just a bit too high, like he can feel it too. His shoulders are straighter now, the sort of posture that demands attention. He used to fall in line behind me without thinking. Now, he matches my stride.

I hate how aware I am of him.

I hate that I want to walk closer.

“Ignore them,” Loki says without looking at me. And I try to. I really do.

But the words come anyway, wrapped in velvet and venom. That evening, during supper with the court, a noble leans a little too close to Father and says, “You must be relieved, my king. It seems fate has chosen your sons to keep the bloodline intact, one way or another.”

Father doesn’t respond. He just tightens his grip on his goblet and lets the moment pass like he didn’t hear it. But I hear it. And I see Loki freeze across the table.

I’m not sure if he’s angry or amused.

After dinner, we walk back in silence until we’re alone, tucked in the empty hall that leads toward our chambers.

“They think we’re mated,” I blurt out. It sounds stupid the moment it leaves my mouth. Childish. But I can’t take it back.

Loki lifts a brow. “They think a lot of things.”

“Do you care?”

He stops. Turns to face me fully.

There’s that glint in his eyes again—too sharp, too knowing. “Do you?”

I want to say no. I want to laugh it off and pretend I don’t smell his scent when I lie awake at night, or feel heat stir in my chest when he touches my shoulder. I want to pretend I don’t dream about his hand curling around my wrist, about him leaning in close.

But my throat closes around the lie.

“They’re wrong,” I say, but it sounds like a question.

Loki doesn’t answer. He just holds my gaze a moment longer than he should before he turns and disappears into his chamber.

I stand alone in the hallway.

And for the first time, I’m not sure I want them to be wrong at all. The storm starts quiet.

A cold wind curling beneath the crack of the door to the council chamber. Voices—not raised yet, but tight with something that vibrates in the air like pressure before a thunderclap.

I shouldn’t be here. I know that.

But I am.

I’d come looking for Mother, hoping for some balm to soothe the burn of court whispers, but as I reach the corner leading to the chamber, I hear them.

My parents.

And they are not speaking like people who agree.

“…he’s a child, Odin. A child. You speak of him as though he’s a mistake to be hidden.” Frigga. Her voice sharp and coiled with anger I rarely hear from her.

“There are things we cannot change,” Odin replies, slower, heavier. “But we do not have to parade them in front of the court.”

I freeze.

They’re talking about me.

“He did not ask for this,” Frigga says. “He’s still your son. Still the heir.”

“There are expectations of the crown—of the line of kings,” Odin snaps. “He was meant to lead. To rule. And now—”

“Now, what?” she cuts in. “He cannot because he’s an omega?”

There’s a silence so loud I can barely breathe through it.

Then Odin speaks, low and bitter: “You know how they will see him. How they already see him.”

I lean closer to the carved wall, careful not to shift my weight too loudly on the stone floor. My heart is a hammer in my throat.

“He is soft now,” Odin continues, voice tight. “The instincts will worsen. The need to bond, to submit—it will unmake everything we built.”

“He is not broken,” Frigga hisses. “And he is not weak.”

“He is vulnerable.” Odin sounds tired now. “And they will circle him for it. Every noble house. Every enemy. Even within our court.” There’s a pause. Then, softer: “Even the boy.” My stomach knots.

Loki.

Mother answers, slower this time. “Loki is loyal to Thor. He would never hurt him.”

“He is ambitious. You know this. If instinct overcomes reason, what then?” Odin says. “He’s showing signs already—early aggression, possessiveness. It may not be conscious, but it is dangerous.”

“That is not fair to either of them.” I can’t listen anymore.

I step back too fast. My heel scuffs the floor, and though the sound is small, it echoes loud enough to snap through the hall.

The conversation inside stops.

I run before I hear the door open.

My lungs burn as I reach the far hall, far enough that no one will follow. I collapse against the wall near the old practice courtyard, breath shallow, ears ringing.

They think I’m weak.

They think I’ll ruin everything.

I dig my fingers into my palms until my nails sting. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t. But something in me splinters when I remember how Father used to look at me—like I was a blade he forged with his own hand.

Now I’m something dulled. And Loki—the boy.

The way Odin said it, like he wasn’t even family.

I don’t want to believe it, but I’ve seen it too. Loki watching me with something dark behind his eyes. The way he stepped between me and Fandral in the training ring last week without thinking. The way he growled when I was cornered during the hunt. He said it was instinct. That it meant nothing.

But maybe that was the lie.

Maybe he’s changing too, and neither of us knows what to do with it. Later that night, I skip the banquet.

I sit alone in the western gardens, where the stars are clearer and the palace lights don’t reach. My cloak is too thin, but I welcome the chill. It keeps me grounded.

“Are you hiding?” a voice says behind me. Loki.

Of course.

I don’t turn to look at him. “Are you following?”

He comes to sit beside me anyway. Not too close, but not far enough either. I can feel the heat of his body, the way his scent curls around the cold like a fire trying to take root.

“You weren’t at supper,” he says. I shrug.

“Was it the rumors?” he presses. “Or something else?”

I hesitate. Then, before I can stop myself: “I heard them. Our parents.” He goes still beside me.

“I wasn’t meant to,” I say, voice flat. “But I heard what they think. About me. About you.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then: “I don’t care what they think.”

I laugh, but it’s bitter. “That’s because they’re not afraid you’ll ruin the kingdom.”

“I’m not the heir,” Loki replies, too easily.

I turn to him then. “But you want to be.”

He looks at me, expression unreadable. “Is that what you think?”

“That’s what father thinks.” My voice cracks. “That you’ll… overpower me. That it’s in your instincts now. That you’ll take what you want whether I want it or not.”

Loki doesn’t flinch. “And do you think that?”

I want to say no.

I want to say yes.

I want to scream that I don’t know what to think anymore.

“You want it, don’t you?” I say instead, voice rising. “You want the throne. You want them all to look at you the way they used to look at me. You want me out of the way.”

Loki recoils like I slapped him. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I heard Father. He said you’re dangerous.”

“Oh, so now you believe him?” Loki’s voice sharpens into something cold. “Suddenly the man who raised you like a weapon is right, because it suits your new sob story?”

I stand. “Don’t twist this.”

“I don’t have to twist it,” Loki spits. “You’re doing it for me. You’ve always been terrified of being anything less than perfect. Now that you're not, you’re looking for someone to blame.”

“You think I wanted this?”

“No,” Loki says, standing too. “I think you hate that I didn’t flinch when it happened. I think you hate that I’m not running away from you like everyone else.”

I clench my fists. “Maybe they’re right to run.”

Something flashes behind his eyes—something I don’t recognize. Hurt, maybe. Or betrayal. Or something darker.

“Then go ahead,” he says, voice quiet now, venomous. “Run from me too. Pretend I’m the problem. See if that makes you feel any less like a disappointment.”

He turns and walks away before I can say another word.

And I let him.

Chapter 5: The Distance Between Us

Loki

I see him less and less these days.

Not because he isn’t around. Thor is everywhere, really—on the training grounds, at council meetings, leading mock patrols with the guards like he’s already king. He’s made to be seen. I, on the other hand, have made an art of being unseen.

The library’s high towers are cold and silent. I like them that way. Here, surrounded by tomes thicker than my arm and spellbooks that smell of ash and old parchment, I can pretend I was never meant to want more.

I trace a rune on the margin of a page, though I’ve read it ten times already. It glows faintly, flickers out. Like me—bright for a moment, then gone.

They whisper about me in the corridors. They think I don’t hear them. The alpha prince who hides like a shadow. I’ve stopped caring what they think. Or I’ve convinced myself of that.

What I haven’t stopped caring about… is him. Thor.

Seventeen now. Broader in the shoulders, sharper in the jaw, all golden light and effortless presence. The court still watches him with gleaming eyes. Still bends around him like he’s gravity and they’re helpless to resist.

And I—

I keep my distance.

Because when we’re close, I can feel it again. The pull. The way he used to look at me like I was more than his brother. The way he doesn’t look at me at all now.

When I passed him in the east hall yesterday, his scent hit me like a blow—sweet and sharp, laced with something strained, something aching. I turned away before I could breathe in too deeply. Before I could let myself remember what it used to be like when he smiled at me instead of clenching his jaw and stepping aside like I’m some poison in his path.

I think he hates me. I think I deserve it.

I wasn’t supposed to want him. Not like that. Not when it crossed from childhood closeness into something else—something darker, more dangerous.

He pulled away first. And I let him.

And now the space between us feels like a canyon I have no hope of crossing.

I know something is wrong the moment I enter the throne room.

Odin’s voice rings out above the murmuring nobles, formal and clipped. “As is custom, each omega of royal blood must begin the process of seeking a mate upon nearing their eighteenth name day.”

My breath halts. The words strike like a spell gone wrong, aimed straight for my chest.

“Prince Thor will be expected to choose a suitable partner within the next several moons,” Odin continues. “One who is of noble standing, and who can provide strength to the crown.”

I don’t hear the rest.

A highborn omega. A future queen. A throne not just shared but bound by scent and bond and law.

It was always going to happen. This is the path laid out for him, carved in stone and prophecy and a thousand years of tradition. I knew that. I’ve always known.

Still, my stomach twists.

My fingers curl tightly around the edge of my sleeve. I keep my head bowed, expression unreadable. Let them all think I am unmoved—just the younger son, the forgotten one, the prince who buries himself in spellwork and solitude.

But Thor is standing just a few paces from the dais, and I can see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw clenches. He knew this was coming, too.

Did he think of me at all when they told him?

When Odin’s voice fades and the room begins to stir with excitement, I slip out as quietly as I came. No one stops me. No one ever does.

The corridor outside is bathed in dusklight, soft and golden. I lean against the wall, shutting my eyes.

He will bond with someone. He must.

And I will watch.

He will share his scent, his bed, his title. He will give someone else what I—

What I was never allowed to want.

What I still want, gods help me.

A part of me, the weakest part, wants to run to him. To say choose me. To remind him that we were something once, weren’t we? That there was a time when his hand fit into mine like it belonged there.

But that time is gone.

He doesn’t look at me anymore.

And even if he did—what could he possibly say? That he regrets pulling away?

That he still dreams of the salt on my fingers, or the way our foreheads pressed together in the dark?

No. That boy is gone.

And maybe I am too.

I stay in the hallway long after the announcement, the chatter in the throne room softening into muffled echoes behind the stone wall.

I should leave. I should return to the library and bury myself in illusion magic until my thoughts stop racing. Until I forget the way Odin’s words landed in my chest like falling stars—too bright, too cruel.

But I don’t move.

The shadows comfort me. The arch of the corridor overhead feels like a sanctuary, hollow and ancient. The torches flicker. Somewhere deeper in the palace, laughter swells—noble voices celebrating Thor’s future, already guessing who he’ll choose.

The moment I hear footsteps—fast, heavy, angry—I know it's him.

Thor storms past the hallway’s mouth, shoulders tight, eyes dark. His cloak whips behind him. He doesn’t see me in the alcove, half-veiled in darkness. Or maybe he does, and he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t head toward his chambers. Not the feast hall. Not even the training grounds. He moves like he’s being chased, but no one follows.

Except me.

I slip out of the shadows, quiet as a ghost.

My boots make no sound on the stone as I trail him through winding corridors. Past the tapestries depicting our ancestors. Past the courtyards and the gold-trimmed alcoves. Past the places we used to play as children.

He shoves open a door—one that leads to the northern overlook, a stone balcony high above the city. I hesitate at the edge of the hall, heart hammering.

The wind up here bites at my skin. I stay just beyond the threshold, letting the thick column beside the doorway shield me from view.

Thor leans on the balustrade, both hands clenched into fists against the cold stone. His breath comes fast, fogging the air in front of him.

“I don’t want this,” he growls. Low, guttural. To himself.

Or maybe not.

“I never wanted this.”

He lets out a hollow laugh and kicks at the wall. It leaves a mark on the stone but doesn’t give him any relief. His shoulders shake—not with rage, not entirely. With something far more fragile.

My fingers twitch against the column. I shouldn’t be here.

He wouldn’t want me here. And yet—

“I’m not ready,” Thor says, voice quieter now. Rough. “They all think I am. They all keep looking at me like I’m supposed to know what I’m doing. Like I want to—”

He cuts himself off, slamming a palm down hard on the balustrade. The sound echoes.

I step forward before I can think better of it.

He doesn’t startle. Doesn’t turn. Just says, “Go away.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I reply, voice low.

“But you’re thinking it.”

“I usually am.”

He finally turns his head, eyes locking onto mine. The fury is gone, burned out, but what remains is worse—exhaustion, confusion, something perilously close to fear.

“I don’t want to be paraded around like livestock,” he mutters. “I don’t want to choose someone just because it’s what’s expected.”

My throat tightens. “You don’t have to. You could—”

“I do,” he says, cutting me off, sharper now. “You heard him. If I don’t, it reflects badly on the Realm. On Father. On you.”

That startles me. “Me?”

“You’re still royalty. Still my... still the other prince.” He looks away, jaw clenched. “Everything I do echoes on you. On everyone.”

“I never asked for that.”

“Neither did I.”

Silence blooms between us. The wind picks up, stirring his hair, tugging at my sleeves. He finally sighs. “Why did you follow me?”

I swallow hard. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

“You hate me.”

“I don’t.”

He turns fully now. There’s fire in his eyes again, but not the kind that burns—it’s the kind that consumes quietly, painfully. “Then why do you avoid me?”

“Because it hurts to be near you,” I admit.

The words are out before I can stop them. They hang there, raw and ugly and real. His eyes widen slightly. “Why?”

I laugh, bitter and hollow. “You know why.”

He steps toward me. Just one step, but it feels like a thunderclap. “Say it.”

My heart stammers. “Why?”

“Because I need to hear it,” he says, and his voice breaks—just a little.

I look at him and see it all again—the boy who held my hand under the banquet table, who danced with me when no one else would, who used to look at me like I was his.

“I want you,” I whisper.

The air between us turns electric.

“I never stopped,” I continue, voice shaking. “Even when you pulled away. Even when I told myself it was wrong. Even now, when every step you take toward your future takes you further from me.”

Thor says nothing.

He just looks at me like he’s drowning. And then—

Footsteps.

Loud, fast, coming from the other end of the hall. We snap apart like opposites repelled by force.

A servant rounds the corner, eyes wide when he spots us. “Prince Thor. Prince Loki. Forgive me, I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” Thor says quickly, stepping back. “We were just talking.” The servant nods, bows, and scurries off.

I don’t look at Thor again. I turn and walk away.

Chapter 6: Smoke Beneath the Skin

Thor

I know something’s wrong the moment I step into the courtyard.

Servants are clustered near the eastern wall, their faces pale, their hands wringing in silent worry. Guards stand rigid at the edge of the gardens, and beyond them lies a shape covered by dark cloth—small, still, and undeniably human.

I don’t need anyone to tell me who it is.

It’s the servant from last night. The one who interrupted us.

The one who saw.

Frigga arrives before I do, her robes billowing behind her like storm clouds. Her eyes meet mine across the courtyard, and she presses a hand gently to my shoulder. “Return to your chambers,” she says. “Let the guards handle this.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No,” she replies, “but I am your mother. And right now, I need you to let me do what I must.”

I obey—not because I want to, but because I don’t know what else to do. The back of my neck prickles as I walk away, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing into my spine. Whispers are already beginning. Another servant follows me halfway to my chambers before awkwardly peeling off with some excuse about midday clothes.

They’re watching me.

They think I know something. And maybe I do.

I pace my chambers restlessly. I don’t change. I don’t sit. I barely breathe. My mind loops over the last night in flashes—Loki’s voice shaking when he said I want you, the look in his eyes, the way we jumped apart when that servant walked in.

And now he’s dead.

It could be coincidence. Of course it could. Except... it doesn’t feel like one.

I barely sleep that night, and by morning, the entire palace feels tense. The air is thicker, like the magic in the walls is holding its breath.

Loki doesn’t join us for breakfast. Or lunch.

When I finally catch a glimpse of him that afternoon, he's stepping out of the library, hooded, pale, and alone. He doesn’t see me at first—I’m half-hidden behind a column, watching him move like a shadow across the stone floor.

He’s always been strange. But this is different.

This is cold. Closed. Controlled in a way that makes my stomach twist. I step out.

“Loki.” He stops.

Turns slowly.

His face is unreadable. His eyes are the color of frost just before a winter storm. “Thor,” he says evenly.

“You weren’t at court.”

“I had no reason to be.”

“They found a servant dead this morning.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So I heard.”

So I heard. That’s all?

“That was the same servant who saw us last night.”

Loki tilts his head, examining me. “And?”

“And you don’t find that strange?”

He smiles. But it’s not a smile I know. It’s tight. Calculated. “Do you think I killed him?”

The words make me recoil.

“No,” I say too quickly. Then quieter: “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t blink. “You used to trust me.”

“I still do. I just... something feels wrong.”

“Something is always wrong in this place.” His voice is sharper than before. Bitter, like wine left too long in the sun.

“You’re acting strange.”

“And you’re acting like a prince with too much guilt and not enough spine,” he snaps. “Maybe it’s the pressure of finding a mate. Maybe it’s the fact that you kissed your brother—”

“I didn’t kiss you,” I interrupt, even though my throat is tight.

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”

And there’s something there, in that silence between his words. Something aching. “I’m not accusing you,” I say.

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m worried.”

“For the servant?”

“For you.”

That throws him off.

Only for a second—but it’s enough. His face twitches, the edges of his mask fraying ever so slightly.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs. “Worry about yourself, Thor. You’ve got a kingdom to marry.” He turns and disappears into the hallway before I can stop him.

I don’t follow. Not this time.

But the dread follows me all the way back to my chambers.

***

Frigga summons me just after dusk. A servant—one of the newer ones, silent and impossibly young—delivers the message with a shallow bow and eyes averted. I thank him, but he doesn’t respond. He scurries away before I can speak again.

I dress carefully. Too carefully, maybe. The dark green tunic is embroidered with silver at the cuffs and neck, and I don’t know why I reach for it until it’s already buttoned. Green.

Loki’s color.

I scowl at my own reflection and change into something deep blue instead.

My mother waits in her solar, bathed in the soft light of candles and the glow of a fire crackling low in the hearth. She’s seated by the window, her silhouette calm, composed, but I know her well enough to see the tension in her spine, the way her fingers curl too tightly around the armrest.

“Sit, Thor.”

I do. The silence stretches long before she finally speaks.

“The council met this morning,” she says gently. “They’ve begun assembling a list of potential suitors.”

My stomach turns.

“I thought I would have until my name day.”

“You do. But you’ll be eighteen in mere months. And with your presentation confirmed, it seems many are… eager.”

“Eager?” I echo, sourly.

She offers me a look. Half amusement, half apology. “There are those who would see an omega prince as a prize, Thor. Especially one with your stature, your strength, your bloodline.”

“Let me guess,” I mutter, “they’re all alphas.”

“Nearly all,” she confirms. “Though a few betas have expressed interest as well. Your father intends to allow for open courtship. And I—”

She stops. Reaches for a scroll beside her chair and unfurls it onto the low table between us. Neatly inked names cascade down the parchment, some underlined in gold, others marked with the sigil of their house.

“Fandral of Vanaheim?” I blink. “He—he’s—he’s just—”

“A close friend, yes,” Frigga finishes delicately. “But he’s also the heir to a respected house. And he asked to be considered.”

I stare at the name. Fandral’s handwriting is scrawled beside it, an informal note declaring his “willingness to serve the crown however the prince desires.”

That sounds like him. Gods, that sounds like him.

I haven’t spoken to Fandral properly in over a year. He drifted toward the warriors’ circle while I stayed behind, trapped under the weight of expectations and titles and the damn scent suppressants I started wearing the moment my body began to betray me.

“Anyone else I know?” I ask bitterly.

Frigga doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. I scan the scroll myself, eyes skimming over noble names from Alfheim, Nidavellir, Muspelheim. Some are familiar, most are strangers. But all of them have one thing in common:

They want a royal omega on their arm.

“Do I even get a choice?” I ask, not meeting her eyes.

“Of course you do.” Her voice is soft. Careful. “But be wise, my son. This is about more than you. It always has been.”

That’s what it means to be royal. To be an heir. A future king. Except now… I’m not that. Not anymore.

Now I’m a consort-in-waiting.

I rise to leave, but she touches my hand. “Thor—”

“What?” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be.

“I know this isn't fair. I know it hurts. But you must not isolate yourself. You mustn’t let your heart grow bitter.”

Bitter?

My heart feels hollow. “I’m fine, Mother.”

She looks at me a moment longer, then lets me go.

I don’t walk straight to my chambers. Instead, I head for the long gallery above the southern hall, where the stars shine through crystal-cut windows and the hush of the palace seems heavier than the stone walls around it.

I press my forehead to the glass.

Out there, across the city, people light their lamps. They eat. Laugh. Love freely. And I—

I belong to duty.

Even if every part of me wants to run in the opposite direction. Straight to the library. Or to the tower where Loki disappears each night. Or the garden paths we used to walk barefoot in spring.

But Loki hasn’t sought me out since the announcement. He barely looked at me when we passed in the corridor. As if all that time we shared has been tucked away, folded like a page in a book he no longer reads.

He’s keeping something from me. I can feel it in my bones.

And worse, I think he’s trying to protect me from it.

I lean my head back and shut my eyes, letting the cool of the glass settle into my skin. If I have to marry…

If I truly must…

Why does the only person I want to touch feel like a crime in my blood?

I wander the halls like a ghost, trailing fingers along the cold marble, down corridors I’ve walked since I was a child. Familiar turns, polished sconces, the ever-present scent of rose oil and old stone. It all feels distant now—blurred. Like I’ve stepped sideways into some dream where everything is the same, yet nothing fits.

They want me mated.

Not eventually. Not someday.

Now.

I turn the words over in my mind again and again, but they never settle. It’s like trying to hold smoke in my hands.

They want me mated before I turn eighteen. An omega prince must be bonded. An unmated royal is a vulnerability. A liability. A temptation.

I understand all of it. The logic. The centuries of tradition. The whispers in the court that I’ve ignored until now. It’s always been coming—I just thought I’d have time.

Time to make sense of myself.

Time to figure out why I never liked being touched unless it was him. Time to breathe.

And now they’re offering up suitors like gifts at a feast, as if one of them might hold the key to this locked-up feeling in my chest. As if a title, a pretty face, a vow whispered in a ceremony could erase the way my throat tightens every time Loki walks into a room and refuses to meet my eyes.

I can’t do this. Gods, I can’t do this.

The moment I bond to someone—truly, fully—my body won’t be mine anymore. My instincts won’t be mine. My choices will be narrowed down to one. One alpha. One voice. One pull so deep that even the thought of saying no will be unbearable.

And if it’s not the right person—if it’s someone I choose out of duty or fear or exhaustion—I’ll have to live with that regret for the rest of my life.

I won’t be able to fight it. That’s what they don’t say aloud.

They speak of honor and alliance and political necessity, but they don’t talk about the way an omega’s bond twists into the marrow of their bones. How it hurts to disobey, how it burns when you try to pull away. How even a cruel mate can become your whole world, because your body won’t let you see them as anything else.

And I’m supposed to just pick? From a list?

I reach an alcove behind the northern wing and press my back to the wall, breath caught somewhere between rage and panic. My palms are sweating. My heart won’t slow.

Fandral is kind. I know that. We used to laugh until we couldn’t breathe. I could do worse.

But even imagining his hands on my waist, his scent pressed into my skin, his mark at the base of my throat—

I gag.

He isn’t the one. None of them are.

Not the Vanir noble with the sharp smile. Not the Frostborn emissary with his jeweled gloves. Not the silver-haired twins from Alfheim who asked if I’d be open to a shared claim.

My soul curls away from all of it. And worst of all, I know why.

Loki.

It’s always been Loki.

Even before I understood what it meant. Even before I knew what I was. It was always him. The way he looked at me when I beat him in sparring and he still smirked. The way he studied magic like he was learning how to survive. The way he always found me when I needed him most—silent, certain, steady.

But if I said anything—if I let myself want him…

They’d call it unnatural. They’d say we were raised together. That it’s perverse, inappropriate, dangerous.

And it is.

Gods help me, it is.

Because when I think of him, I don’t think of duty. I don’t think of alliances. I don’t think of ceremony or thrones.

I think of warmth. Of weight.

Of the feeling I get in my chest when he says my name like he’s the only one who knows what it means.

I slide down the wall, fists clenched against my knees. I can’t let them choose for me.

But I can’t choose him either. So what does that leave me? A crown I may never wear.

A bond I’ll never want.

A body that isn’t truly mine.

Just an omega prince with no right to his own future.

Chapter 7: Of Fire and Formalities

Notes:

Sorry about the wait, I do have multiple chapters pre-written, I just keep forgetting to post them! So, yeah, enjoy!

Loki

It’s always in the library where I hear the most.

No one expects a shadow to listen. Least of all a prince with ink-stained fingers and eyes that seem to always be fixed on the pages of some ancient tome. I cultivate that impression carefully—just the right amount of disinterest, the practiced slouch of someone who doesn’t care what the rest of the court is whispering about.

But I hear everything.

And this morning, tucked between the shelves of Asgardian legal histories and Odinson family chronicles, I hear it.

A servant and a lesser noble. A passing conversation spoken in the careless, cloying tone of those who believe they’re above consequence.

“—a formal courtship? Oh yes, the Crown Prince must choose a mate by his eighteenth name day. The announcement was just made.”

“I heard Fandral of House Solarn was the first to offer. Old friends, aren’t they?”

“A clever move. A well-bonded omega prince makes for a peaceful realm.” I stop breathing. The ink on the page before me blurs into nothing.

Fandral.

Fandral is seeking him.

My fingers twitch around the edge of the book, and I force myself to turn the page with a measured hand. I will not flinch. I will not move too quickly. I will not give them reason to think they’ve just said anything of note.

But inside?

Inside I am burning.

Of course it’s Fandral. Of course it’s someone Thor once trusted. Golden-haired, always smiling, always laughing—just the sort of alpha the court would prefer. Someone easy to understand.

Someone clean and polished and eager to please. Someone safe.

I press the book shut and stare at the spine. The runes swim in my vision. He knew.

Thor knew. He had to have known this was coming, and he didn’t tell me.

Not that I blame him. Not really. We barely speak these days. We’ve grown practiced in the art of avoidance—each of us a planet orbiting the other’s gravity, never daring to draw too close for fear of collapse.

But still. Still.

The thought of Thor with someone else—bound to someone else—makes something sour rise in my throat. I hate it. I hate the way the thought curls into my spine like cold iron. I hate the way my body reacts, unbidden, furious. My jaw tightens. My skin prickles with unwanted heat.

I don’t have the right to be angry.

I’m not even sure what I am to him anymore.

The last time we were alone—truly alone—was weeks ago. Maybe months. And even then, it ended in silence, in footsteps echoing away down opposite corridors.

It’s better that way. Cleaner. Safer. Except that it isn’t.

Because I keep remembering the way he looked at me in the shadows of the great hall. The way his breath hitched when our fingers brushed. The way he said my name in that hoarse, desperate whisper.

And now someone else wants him. Someone the court will accept. Someone Thor might choose, if only to quiet the noise in his head.

What if he says yes?

What if he lets himself be bonded to someone else out of duty, and I lose him before I ever truly had him?

I stand. The book thuds shut, louder than it should. My hands won’t stop shaking.

I want to tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I’ve outgrown whatever foolish crush I harbored when we were younger. That this ache in my chest is nothing but misplaced envy or the sour bite of competition.

But I am not a child anymore. I have presented. I know what this is.

Every time I catch the scent of his skin—salt and summer rain—I want to follow it. I want to claim it. And that instinct, that pull, that maddening gravity, is stronger than any lie I could tell myself.

Fandral doesn’t deserve him. Not because he’s cruel. Not because he’s unworthy. But because he’s not me.

I close my eyes, draw in a slow breath, and force the fire back down where it belongs.

I can’t stop the court from pushing their perfect, obedient mates in Thor’s path. I can’t stop Fandral from trying.

But I can watch. I can learn. And if there’s even a chance that Thor still wants something else—someone else—I’ll be damned before I let that chance slip away.

Even if it breaks me.

***

I know where he drinks.

Fandral has never been subtle. He and his knightly ilk flock to that gaudy tavern just outside the palace gates—where the wine flows freely and the servants are trained to flirt, flatter, and not ask questions. It’s the kind of place Odin pretends doesn’t exist. A place for spoiled warriors and smug courtiers to pretend at heroism while pawing at soft-bodied omegas too poor to refuse them.

I shouldn’t be here.

But the palace feels too tight, too loud, too full of ghosts I can’t afford to chase. And I need to see him. I need to know what sort of alpha believes he deserves Thor.

The tavern is dim and foul-smelling, and I cast an illusion to mask my face before I step inside. No one notices the cloaked figure in the corner. Good. Let them see another brooding noble with too many opinions and not enough gold.

I spot him almost immediately.

Fandral is leaned back in his chair, boots on the table, wine sloshing in one hand. He’s laughing too loud. Surrounded by a handful of other warriors—Volstagg, I think, and two others I don’t recognize. They’re already deep into their cups.

And the omega waitress—barely older than I am—is trying to keep her hands from trembling as she refills his goblet.

“Steady there, love,” Fandral purrs, fingers trailing along her wrist. “You spill any more, I might think you’re eager to get me wet.”

The others snicker.

The omega’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t pull away. She can’t. She just nods, mumbles something polite, and turns to leave.

He slaps her backside as she walks away. My vision goes white.

I don’t remember standing. Don’t remember leaving the tavern. But I find myself waiting in the alley behind it, just past the slanted kitchen doors where the servants take out the trash. The air is thick with smoke and rotted vegetables.

It doesn’t take long.

Fandral stumbles out, laughing to himself, adjusting his belt. He doesn’t notice me until he’s too close.

“Forgot your manners in there,” I say softly, stepping from the shadows.

He startles, reaching for a dagger that isn’t there. “Who—?”

The illusion drops. He blinks. “Loki?”

I grab his collar and slam him against the stone wall before he can say anything else.

“You arrogant, simpering wretch,” I hiss. “You think the crown prince is a prize to be claimed at your leisure? A conquest to toss on your bedpost like all the others?”

Fandral smirks despite the sharp stone pressing into his spine. “I didn’t realize you fancied him for yourself, little prince.”

I tighten my grip. “You think you’re worthy of him? After the filth you just spewed inside? That omega girl—you touched her without her consent.”

“She liked it.”

“She was afraid.”

His eyes narrow. “So what? You’re suddenly a knight now? Defender of the defenseless? Or are you just scared he’ll choose me over you?”

My blood sings with fury. He’s not entirely wrong.

But that doesn’t make him right.

“You wouldn’t know how to handle him,” I say, voice low and venomous. “You’d treat him like property. A thing to own. A title to wear.”

“He’s an omega,” Fandral shrugs. “That’s what they are.”

I punch him.

Hard.

His head snaps sideways, blood blooming from a split in his lip. He stares at me, shocked. Then furious.

I don’t give him time to respond. I press him back into the wall, a warning snarl curling in my throat. “You lay a single hand on him and I’ll make sure the next time you drink, it’ll be through a feeding tube.”

For a moment, he looks like he might try to fight back.

But then he sees the look in my eyes and thinks better of it.

He sneers. “You think Thor would pick you, Loki? Over someone the realm actually respects? You’re a shadow. A footnote. You don’t even have a house of your own.”

“Maybe not,” I whisper. “But at least I see him for who he is. Not what the court wants him to be.”

Fandral scoffs and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re mad.”

I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink.

“Perhaps,” I murmur, tilting my head as if I’m entertaining the thought. “But that’s not what should concern you.”

He starts to open his mouth again, but I’m already moving.

The dagger slips into my hand like it belongs there—slender and sharp, carved with runes Father doesn’t know I’ve studied. It glints once under the moonlight before I drive it into him, just beneath his ribs.

He gasps. It’s not even a scream—just the startled intake of breath as the steel punches through flesh.

His eyes are wide. Uncomprehending.

I lean in close, my voice low in his ear. “You touched him with hands that hurt others. You spoke of him like he was something to be won. You should’ve known better.”

He shudders. Blood leaks around my fingers, warm and thick. I twist the blade—not enough to make it quick.

“People like you never learn until someone makes you.”

His mouth opens, but there are no words. Only the gurgle of breath and panic.

I study him. Not with regret. Not with hatred, either. Just a quiet, simmering cold. “You’re not the first to underestimate what I’m capable of.”

I let him fall.

His body crumples against the cobblestones, the dagger still lodged deep in his side. I don’t bother retrieving it. No one here will trace it back to me.

I adjust my cloak, fingers still sticky with blood, and turn away. No one watches. No one dares. The air smells of wine, and smoke, and something metallic curling in the back of my throat.

I disappear into the night.

Chapter 8: Dead Men Don’t Propose

Loki

The court is buzzing with whispers again.

It’s always loudest in the mornings, when nobles are still sleepy and less guarded with their gossip. Over honeyed bread and steaming cups of tea, they bare their fangs under the mask of politeness. Today is no different—except today, they are whispering his name.

Fandral.

I sit alone at the edge of the high table, stirring my porridge without appetite. The nobles murmur beneath their breath like bees in the walls, and no one dares to speak to me directly. But their eyes flicker toward me, sharp and curious. I meet not one gaze. Let them look.

Fandral has disappeared.

Vanished, they say. Slipped out of the palace in the dead of night, left no note, no warning. Some claim he was disgraced—fled before he could be punished for gambling debts or a duel gone wrong. Others suggest a lover’s spat, perhaps with someone powerful. The most salacious version, told in the corner where the light doesn’t reach, insists he was seen in the lower city taverns not a day before, drunk and loud and cornering a poor omega girl.

I know better. Of course I do. I was there.

And I remember precisely how many times the dagger went in.

A hand clasps my shoulder—too warm, too sudden. I tense instinctively, only to find Mother standing beside me, all gentle grace and soft strength.

“Walk with me,” she says, smiling for the nobles as if we’re discussing the weather.

I nod, swallowing what’s left of my calm, and rise to follow her out of the hall.

The corridors are still quiet, but I swear I can feel the whispers following behind us like shadows. I wonder if she can hear them too.

She leads me to the garden, the farthest wing of the palace, where the frost clings stubbornly to the petals and no one dares eavesdrop. It’s a place she always loved, and I hate that it still feels like hers even now.

“You’ve been distant,” she says once we’re alone. “Even for you.”

“I’ve had little to say,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “The court makes a sport of talking for me.”

Frigga watches me, those piercing eyes searching, measuring. She doesn’t smile this time.

“I sent for your tunic to be washed yesterday,” she says quietly. “The green one you favor.”

I say nothing. The breeze rustles the frost-bitten roses between us.

“There was blood on the hem.”

She’s giving me a chance to lie. To explain it away as a training injury, a careless nick in the library, anything.

I meet her eyes and say nothing.

“I’ve also noticed your dagger is missing,” she adds, voice still calm but with a sharpness beneath it now. “The one your father gave you last solstice.”

Still, I say nothing. I wait. Let her accuse me. Let her say it aloud.

But she doesn’t.

“You’ve always been protective of your brother,” she says instead, stepping closer. “But even protection has its limits, Loki. There are consequences to keeping secrets this heavy.”

I look away at that—because for a moment, it doesn’t feel like an accusation. It feels like pity.

“I’ve done nothing that hasn’t been done before,” I murmur. “I simply did it better.”

Frigga exhales, slow and tired. Her face is so sad I almost can’t stand to look at it.

“You are not your father,” she says.

No. I’m not. I never will be.

“If Fandral left,” I say at last, voice quiet, “then the court is safer for it.”

A long silence stretches between us, broken only by the wind threading through the hedges.

“You care for Thor,” she says, not as a question.

I laugh, sharp and humorless. “Everyone cares for Thor.”

“No,” she says. “Not like you do.”

I look at her then. Really look at her. And for the first time in a long time, I wonder if she truly sees me.

“I would burn down this entire kingdom for him,” I say, softly. “If it meant he was free.”

Frigga closes her eyes, just for a moment. “And what if that’s not what he wants?”

I flinch. Just barely.

She reaches forward, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, like she used to when I was small. Like I’m not someone she now suspects of murder.

“You’re still young, Loki,” she murmurs. “And you don’t have to choose this path.”

“I already have.”

The garden is colder now than when we arrived. My breath clouds in the air between us. Mother says nothing more, and when she finally turns and leaves me there, I let her go.

I stand alone in the frostbitten silence, my hands clenched inside my sleeves. My heart is steady, but my head is loud.

The kingdom hums behind me, unaware. But the ripples are beginning. The water is stirring.

And Fandral is silent.

Forever.

 

Thor

I know something’s wrong the moment I enter the great hall.

The tension is too thick. Nobles are too stiff. Their smiles are sharp, cold, as though they’re rehearsing grief. I don’t sit at my usual place. I don’t even make it halfway down the aisle before one of the guards—Haldor, Father’s favored knight—intercepts me with a bowed head and tight lips.

“Your Highness,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to those who are already watching. “The Allfather wishes to see you. Privately.”

Privately never means anything good.

My heart is already in my throat as I follow Haldor through the back corridors. The route is quick, quiet, and entirely devoid of people. No servants. No advisors. No Loki.

That’s what unsettles me most.

When we reach the war room, Father is already there—standing, not seated, which is worse somehow. He doesn’t look at me immediately, just stares at the map table like it’s done him a personal offense.

“Close the door,” he says without turning.

I obey, trying not to let the weight of the silence crush me.

He speaks before I can.

“There’s been a body.”

I go still. The words don’t quite hit all at once. “What?”

“A body,” he repeats, clipped and flat. “Found this morning behind the tavern just outside the palace gates.”

I say nothing. I know better than to speak before he’s ready to give details.

“It was one of the knights,” Odin continues. “Your friend, Fandral.”

Fandral.

The name lands like a stone in my stomach.

“Dead?” I ask, my voice rasping.

“Stabbed,” Odin confirms. “Multiple wounds. Clean, efficient. No sign of struggle.”

No sign of struggle.

That rules out drunken brawls or street thugs. It was someone who knew what they were doing. Someone Fandral didn’t see coming—or someone he trusted.

“Have you… told his family?” I ask, because it’s the only thing that feels right to say.

“They’ll be informed,” Odin says. “But I called you here first for another reason.”

My stomach drops further. “Because he proposed to me.”

Odin finally looks up.

“Yes.”

Of course.

Fandral had only just submitted his intent to court me. I’d received the letter barely two days before. He’d made it clear—bold and boastful, as always—that he believed himself a worthy alpha, someone who could handle a prince, if not tame one.

I hadn’t responded. I hadn’t even finished reading the letter.

“I didn’t… I mean, I never—” I stop, frustrated with myself. “I didn’t encourage him.”

Odin’s face softens only slightly. “I know.”

It’s strange, hearing him say that. I expect accusation. Condemnation. But instead, I see something else in his eyes—weariness. And something sharper, colder, that I can’t quite name.

“Do you know who did it?” I ask.

“No. Not yet.”

There’s a lie in his voice. Or not a lie, exactly—but a void. Something he isn’t saying.

“Do you suspect someone?” I press.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he folds his hands behind his back, eyes back on the map. “Whether this was an act of personal vengeance or political maneuvering remains to be seen. But a royal omega with dead suitors is not an image I intend to entertain.”

I flinch. “He wasn’t—he wasn’t my suitor.”

“You are not a common court omega, Thor,” he snaps. “Everything you do reflects on the realm. Even your silence.”

That silences me.

Because I know he’s right.

Still, something itches at the back of my mind. Fandral’s sleazy grin, the way he always looked at people like they were already undressed. The uncomfortable laughter from court events, the rumors he claimed were jokes.

Loki’s sneer when he heard the name.

And Loki isn’t here.

My fingers twitch at my sides.

“May I leave?” I ask, barely holding my tone level.

Odin gives a terse nod, already dismissing me as he returns to his own brooding.

The hallway feels colder when I step out.

I make it halfway back toward my chambers before I stop and turn, heading not toward my room but toward the east wing. The library.

I need to see him. I need to see Loki.

Not because I suspect him.

Not exactly.

But because the part of me that’s still shaking needs to know if he’s shaking too.

If he already knew.

And if he did… why he hasn’t looked me in the eye since last night.

Chapter 9: The Silence He Left Behind

Thor

I find him exactly where I knew he would be: buried in the furthest corner of the library, lit only by a flickering wall sconce and the cold shimmer of his magic.

He doesn't look up when I enter. Not when I pause by the shelves. Not even when I call his name.

“Loki.”

He turns a page too slowly. His jaw is tight, and his fingers twitch like they’re itching to do something other than read.

I step closer.

“You knew,” I say, because I can’t keep it in any longer. My voice is low, hard, shaking. “Didn’t you?”

His hand stills on the page. But he doesn’t lift his head.

“About Fandral.”

A breath. Just one. Drawn in slow and quiet through his nose. Then—

“He’s dead,” I continue. “Stabbed. Cleanly. Like it was practiced. Like it was planned.”

Silence.

“Did you—”

“Don’t,” Loki says. Not loud. Not sharp. But final.

I stop. Not because I’m afraid of him, but because I don’t know what I’ll say next. I don’t know what I want the answer to be.

He closes the book. Gently. Like he’s setting something precious down. Then finally, finally, he looks at me.

His eyes are unreadable. But I see the tension in his shoulders. The way his lips press too tightly together. The way his throat moves when he swallows.

“Are you going to accuse me, brother?” he asks softly. “Stand there like a proper prince and cast judgment on the spare?”

“I’m not trying to judge you.”

“Aren’t you?” He rises from the chair, slow and deliberate, his lean frame shadowed by the towering shelves. “You came here looking for answers. Fine. Ask the question properly.”

“Did you kill him?” I whisper.

The silence after that is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.

Loki looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m worth telling the truth to.

Then he smiles.

Only it isn’t a smile—it’s a slash of teeth, of something feral and defensive.

“Would it matter?”

“Yes,” I breathe.

He takes a step toward me. “Why?”

“Because I knew him,” I say. “Because I trusted you.”

A flicker of pain crosses his face—but it’s gone too fast, buried beneath something darker.

“You knew him?” he echoes. “The same Fandral who cornered the kitchen girls when he thought no one was watching? Who made crude remarks about the scent of omegas passing in the halls? You knew him?”

He’s angry now. Not yelling—never yelling—but furious in that quiet, lethal way that coils under his skin like a storm waiting to strike.

“And what did you think he’d do if you said no to his proposal?” Loki asks, voice like ice over fire. “Smile and bow out like a gentleman? He thought you were a prize, Thor. Not a person. He would’ve taken you if he could. Maybe not right away. Maybe he would’ve waited until the bond made you compliant.”

“Loki—”

“No.” His voice breaks. Just a little. “No, don’t you dare tell me I was wrong to protect you.”

I don’t know what to say.

Because a part of me—the quiet, scared part—believes him.

But another part is terrified.

Terrified that this is who he’s becoming.

“I didn’t ask you to protect me like that.”

“You didn’t have to,” he says. “You smelled like fear the last time he touched your arm.”

He’s too close now. I can smell the sharp, stormy scent of his alpha presence. It cuts through my defenses like a blade through silk.

“I would do it again,” he says, lower now. “I’d kill him twice if I could.”

I close my eyes.

Because I want to lean into him.

Because I want to run.

Because I want to kiss him and scream at him and beg him to stop turning into something I don’t recognize.

But all I say is: “You can’t keep doing this.”

“And if I don’t?” he asks. “If I let you be courted, marked, mated—by someone like him or worse? What then?”

He looks at me like he already knows the answer.

But I don’t.

Not anymore.

Not when the lines between love and obsession are this blurred. Not when the boy I grew up beside feels like the only thing in the world I want—and the one thing I might need to fear.

“Get out,” I whisper.

Loki flinches.

Then, slowly, he nods. “As you command, my prince.”

He vanishes in a shimmer of green and gold, leaving nothing but silence and the books he abandoned.

I sink into the chair he left behind.

And I don’t move.

Chapter 10: A Crown for the Taking

Thor

The hall is warm with candlelight and far too many eyes.

I stand at the edge of the gathering, hands clasped behind my back like I’m here of my own will—like I am not a prize paraded before a room full of eager alphas, each one more polished than the last. Gold chains, fine silks, too-bright smiles. All of them waiting to make their move.

My chest tightens beneath the stiff collar of my tunic. I wish I were wearing armor instead.

Frigga speaks beside me, her voice soft and composed as she nods to a noblewoman from Vanaheim. “Lady Alka has sons of fine standing,” she says. “Warriors, both.”

I give a stiff nod. I can’t meet my mother’s eyes.

They are all warriors. They are all noble. They are all strangers.

“Your Highness.” A familiar voice cuts through the hum of courtly conversation, low and smooth and far too close.

I turn—and freeze.

Volstagg. I haven’t seen him in over a year. Not since he left the palace to lead a border patrol in Alfheim. He looks different now—taller, broader, his beard trimmed and his scent sharper than I remember. Less like a friend. More like an alpha.

“Volstagg,” I say, managing a smile. “You’ve returned.”

“For you, it seems,” he says, and there’s a grin on his face that used to make me laugh. Now it makes my skin crawl. “Heard about the mating search. Thought I’d throw my name into the ring.”

I try to chuckle, to keep it light. “You always were ambitious.”

He steps closer. “And you were always too pretty to be left unclaimed.”

My smile dies.

Before I can respond, his hand lands on my hip—casual, like we’re still sparring in the practice yard and not standing in the middle of a royal hall full of onlookers. His thumb presses just above my belt.

I grab his wrist.

The movement is quick, sharper than I intend, and his grin falters. I hold his gaze and speak low.

“Don’t.”

Volstagg raises his hands in mock surrender, but there’s a flash of something mean behind his eyes.

“I forget how sensitive you’ve become,” he says. “Being an omega must do that to a man.”

I say nothing. I walk away.

The crowd parts before me like a sea, murmurs trailing behind me. I don’t stop until I reach the far end of the hall, where the shadows begin to thicken. I lean against a column, breathing hard, trying not to shake.

And then I feel it—that sensation of being watched.

I look up.

There, on the upper balcony, partially cloaked in shadow, stands Loki.

His expression is unreadable. Eyes cold, jaw tight.

He saw.

He always sees.

He turns.

I barely catch the movement, the way his cloak swishes behind him, vanishing like a shadow swallowed by deeper ones. But I know it’s him. No one walks like that—stiff-backed, fluid, angry in every controlled step—except for Loki.

My chest pulls tight.

He saw.

The way Volstagg touched me. The way I froze. The way I walked away without causing a scene.

My hand still tingles where I grabbed Volstagg’s wrist. I wish I had done more. Hit him. Said something clever. Loud. Made him regret putting his hands on me.

But I didn’t.

And Loki saw.

I press my palms against the column behind me, forehead lowering until it grazes the cool stone. The music continues behind me, the harps and flutes and delicate laughter all suddenly so far away. None of it touches me.

I should find him.

No. What would I say? Did you enjoy the show, brother? Did I look weak to you? No. That’s not fair. Loki isn’t the enemy here. And yet…

There’s something about the way he looked at me. Cold, unreadable. Not like the boy who used to share my bed after nightmares. Not like the one who used to sneak me books from the restricted section just because I wanted to know.

He looked like a stranger.

Or worse—he looked like an alpha.

I shiver.

Is this what it’s going to be like now? Surrounded by alphas, all of them watching me, weighing me, calculating what they’ll gain if they win me? And Loki among them, silent and distant, just another pair of eyes in a crowd?

Gods. I don’t want this.

I slide down the column and sit against it, legs pulled up, careful to keep my cloak draped neatly over my knees in case anyone’s still watching.

What if I let them choose for me? What if I do what I’m told, as I’ve always done, and let myself be handed off like a prize sword?

I could end up with someone like Volstagg.

I swallow bile.

Or worse—someone who doesn’t even pretend to care.

And Loki—he’ll vanish into the shadows and never look back. He’ll become someone the realm admires from afar: a sharp-witted prince with a knack for magic and no time for sentiment. No time for me.

I dig my fingers into my hair.

I want him to come back.

I want him to find me here and tell me what to do. Or yell at me. Or shake me and say he hates this, too. That I’m not imagining the heat in his gaze, the electricity when our arms brush, the way he stared when I danced with someone else last month.

But he won’t.

He’s gone.

And I am alone in a room full of people.

Chapter 11: The Beast Beneath My Skin

Loki

I don’t remember walking out.

One moment, I was standing by the edge of the room, pretending to listen, pretending to breathe, pretending not to notice the way Volstagg’s hand slid lower, lower, too low—

The next, I was gone.

No plan. No destination. Just motion, driven by the roar in my head.

I pass through hallways and shadows like smoke, my boots silent but my thoughts anything but.

He touched him.

He touched him.

Thor flinched.

And I did nothing.

I clench my jaw until my teeth grind.

I saw the way Thor’s eyes darted around, like a cornered fawn. The way he smiled too tightly, too sweetly, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. And I stood there like a fool—no, like a coward—and let it happen.

Because I knew. I knew if I did anything, if I made a scene, they'd call it jealousy. Possessiveness. Proof that I’ve finally gone feral, like they all expect.

So I swallowed it down.

But I can feel it rising now. The heat. The pulse behind my eyes. The thrum of something old and territorial and violent snarling in the pit of my stomach.

I stop in the middle of the hallway, one hand bracing against the stone as I breathe, in and out, in and out. But it doesn’t help.

All I see is Thor’s face.

His lip caught between his teeth. His lashes lowered. That desperate little shake of his head when Volstagg leaned too close.

Mine.

The word is a brand on my tongue. A poison.

Because he’s not. He’s never been. Not officially. Not in any way that matters.

But the idea of someone else having him, someone else marking him, mating him—

My stomach lurches.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to the wall. “Stop,” I whisper. “Stop thinking. Stop feeling.”

But the heat curls tighter inside me, folding into something sharper. My fingers twitch. My scent—normally so carefully masked—is spiking in the air around me, acrid and hot and bitter. A warning to any who would dare step close.

He let Volstagg touch him.

No. No, he didn’t. He tolerated it. Because he’s still trying to be good. Obedient. The perfect little omega prince they all want him to be.

And it’s killing him.

I see it, even if no one else does. The way he tightens his smile until it cracks. The way he glances toward exits before he enters a room. The way he only laughs now when he thinks no one’s listening.

They’re smothering him.

And I’m letting them.

I should have ripped Volstagg’s hand off at the wrist. I should’ve thrown him across the room, made him bleed in front of the whole court. I still can.

But Thor would hate me for it.

Wouldn’t he?

My knuckles are white where they press to the stone. My heart won’t slow. I feel like I’m made of nothing but teeth and heat and shame.

What’s happening to me?

This—this can’t be what being an alpha means. This violent, suffocating need. This rage. This desire to claim, to protect, to destroy anything that touches what I want.

I’m not like them. I’m not.

Except… maybe I am.

Maybe this is who I’ve always been underneath the silk and sarcasm. A monster waiting for permission to bare its teeth.

I drag in another breath. It shudders through me.

I think of Thor’s eyes again. The way he looked at me, just before he disappeared into the garden. Not scared of me. Just… lost.

I want to find him. I want to take him away from all of this. The court, the pressure, the mating lists. The weight of being wanted only for what he is.

But what would I do, once I had him?

My fingers twitch again. I stare down at them.

Would I be gentle?

Would I be cruel?

Would I be able to stop?

The thought burns. I turn from the wall and keep walking, because if I stop again, I’m afraid of what I might do.

Afraid of who I might already be.

I reach the library before I even realize I’ve chosen to go there.

The scent of dust and parchment should be calming. It usually is. These walls have always been a refuge—quiet, orderly, filled with logic and silence. But tonight, it only feels like a cage.

The click of the door closing behind me echoes like a gunshot.

I pace between shelves.

I think about Thor’s scent.

It’s changing. Softer, sweeter, thicker on the air. There are moments I catch it and it makes my knees go weak. It doesn’t repulse me the way it should—not if we were truly brothers. It doesn’t just attract me either. It undoes me.

No one warned me how much scent could hurt.

It coils in my lungs, sticky and warm, and I want to drown in it.

I grip the edge of a table, trying to still my hands. They won’t stop trembling.

I’m losing control.

I tell myself it’s the presentation. The shift. The hormones. That once I balance out, this will pass. But I don’t believe it. Not really.

Because it’s not just instinct. It’s him.

It’s always been him.

Since we were boys, chasing shadows through the halls, daring each other into trouble. Since our fingers brushed over salt, since he pulled me into dance without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was always going to be him.

And now he’s a prize. A jewel to be bartered and claimed. And I’m not even allowed to look at him the wrong way without being accused of something ugly.

They see me as a threat.

They’re not wrong.

I don’t know what I would do if someone else claimed him.

I don’t know.

The thought makes my mouth go dry. My heart races. I grip the edge of the desk harder, until I think it might splinter.

Because if Volstagg had been alone with him longer—

If Thor hadn’t pulled away—

If no one had noticed—

Would he have stopped?

And would I have let him live?

I inhale sharply, a hiss between my teeth.

No.

No, I wouldn’t have.

There wouldn’t have been a body to bury.

I swallow, hard.

I should feel horror. Revulsion. Something.

Instead, all I feel is the pounding of blood in my ears, and the aching weight of restraint in every joint.

I’m barely holding it together.

If anyone saw me now—my eyes wild, my scent bitter and biting, my fingers curled like claws—they’d say I’ve snapped.

Maybe I have.

But no one understands what this is like. To feel the pull, the fire, the hunger. To know it’s all wrong, and still want it more than anything.

To see him touched by another and feel like something inside you has broken in two.

I don’t know how much longer I can live like this. Watching him from afar. Pretending I don’t care. Pretending I won’t burn the world if he chooses someone else.

Because I will.

I will.

And gods help anyone who stands in my way.

Chapter 12: The Chain Around My Neck

Thor

The sky is gray the morning I find out.

Not dramatic-gray. Not the kind that heralds thunder or war. Just a dull, heavy sort of overcast that feels like it’s pressing down on everything. Fitting, really.

I should’ve known something was wrong the moment the guards knocked.

They didn’t announce themselves. They didn’t wait for permission. They just walked in, stiff-backed and silent, and told me the Allfather required my presence.

I don’t ask why.

I already know.

The walk to the throne room feels longer than usual. The corridor stretches on forever, lined with watching eyes—servants, courtiers, advisors. All of them stare, then glance away. I hear the whispers before the doors even open.

They know.

And I don’t.

The doors creak wide and Father is already waiting for me on the dais, seated in full regalia as though we’re conducting state affairs. Mother stands a few steps below him, hands folded tightly in front of her. Her expression is carefully neutral. That worries me more than anything.

“Thor,” Father says, not unkindly. That almost makes it worse. “Come forward.”

I do. My steps echo in the cavernous room.

“You are aware of the custom,” he begins. “On the eve of your eighteenth name day, as the realm’s omega heir, you are to be bound to a mate of proper standing.”

I nod slowly. “Yes, I am aware.”

“You were given time. Options. Ample opportunity.”

I swallow hard. “I needed time to consider. To choose wisely.”

“But you did not choose,” he says, voice sharpening. “You refused to.”

Refused. As if I was being willful. As if it wasn’t terror that stopped me. That every offer felt like a shackle, not a vow.

Father leans back, folding his hands. “So I have made the choice for you.”

There’s a silence in my skull that rings louder than any thunder.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You will be bound to Hogun,” he says, as if it’s a mercy.

I blink. I almost laugh. Surely I misheard him.

“Hogun,” I repeat slowly. “As in… the Grim?”

“Yes.”

I feel all the blood drain from my face.

“He’s nearly twice my age,” I say, grasping for logic. “He’s—he’s a warhound. He barely speaks.”

“He is strong. Loyal. He will protect you well.”

“He’s cruel,” I snap. “He broke a servant’s arm over spilled mead.”

“A match must be made, Thor,” Father replies, calm and immovable. “You refused to make it. This is the consequence.”

I turn to my mother then, desperate.

“Mother—please—”

Her lips part. Her eyes shimmer, just a little.

But she says nothing.

That silence is worse than any word.

Something in me cracks, right there in the throne room. Like bone under too much pressure. The sharp edge of it slices through my chest.

“When?” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

“A fortnight,” Odin says. “Enough time to prepare.”

A fortnight.

Two weeks, and I’ll be collared like a prize hound.

I bow stiffly, because that’s what is expected, and then I walk. I don’t remember moving through the door, or down the stairs. I only know I’m out in the corridor again when I hear it slam behind me.

My steps pick up.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I can’t stop.

The corridors blur.

Everywhere I go, someone looks at me. Some smile—congratulations, Prince Thor. Others bow, offer little murmurs of Hogun is a fine choice. No one sees the way my hands shake.

No one hears the screaming in my head.

I make it to the stables before I lose it.

The horses shift as I stumble in, nostrils flaring at my scent—sharpened now by panic and rage. I sink into the hay beside a stall and press my hands to my face.

I’m going to be bound to him.

To someone who sees omegas as tools, not people. Someone who values obedience more than connection. Someone who doesn’t care that I read poetry, or like rainstorms, or wake up in cold sweats still smelling Loki’s scent on my skin.

Loki.

Gods.

I press my forehead to my knees.

Does he know?

Did he hear?

Will he care?

My heart pounds faster.

I try to imagine him barging into the throne room, fury in his eyes, shouting down Odin with that sharp, venomous tongue of his. I imagine him grabbing my hand and running—just running, anywhere, away from this place.

But that’s just a dream.

Loki isn’t the kind of boy who barges in for anyone. Not anymore. He hides in the shadows. He says nothing at dinners. His eyes don’t meet mine.

And maybe it’s my fault.

Maybe I pushed too hard. Pulled too far. Asked for too much without saying what I wanted.

But if he doesn’t stop this…

If no one stops this…

In two weeks, I’ll belong to Hogun.

And I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

 

2 weeks later

The hall is too bright.

Lanterns hang from every arch, every beam. Firelight dances on gold-thread banners that shimmer like sunlight on water. Music thrums through the floor, and laughter echoes off the high ceilings. Every noble in the realm is here. Their scents cloud the air—perfumed and polished, cloying and overwhelming. It’s a celebration.

My celebration.

My throat burns.

I stand at the edge of the crowd, dressed in heavy velvet, silver embroidery twining across my chest like shackles masquerading as art. I can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. Some approving. Some hungry. Some jealous. It doesn’t matter. They’re all here to see the same thing:

The engagement of the omega prince to the brute who won him.

Mother had helped me dress. She didn’t speak a word. Just fastened each button with shaking fingers, smoothed my collar, kissed my forehead like I was being sent to war.

Father said this was tradition. He said it was duty.

He never once said it was right.

Hogun stands a few paces away, flanked by warriors and other alphas offering their congratulations. He’s cleaned up for the occasion, his armor polished, hair combed back, beard trimmed. But he still looks like a weapon. Like he could gut someone with a glance.

And I am meant to be his.

The thought makes bile rise in my throat.

I scan the crowd again. Desperate. Searching.

Still no sign of Loki.

He hasn’t been seen all day. Not at the midday feast. Not at the royal procession. Not in the corridors or the gardens or the cursed library. It’s not like him to miss something like this. Not out of spite. Not even out of indifference.

And yet—

A horn sounds, sharp and shrill, silencing the hall.

Father stands.

My heart stops.

He raises his cup, face stoic, regal. “As Allfather of the Realm Eternal,” he says, voice ringing out like thunder, “I welcome you all to this blessed Midsummer’s night.”

A roar of approval. Cheers. Applause. Toasts raised and wine gulped.

“And as custom demands,” he continues, eyes sweeping the room, “I bring forth an announcement of unity, a bond forged in duty and strength. Let all of Asgard bear witness—”

The doors explode open.

Not figuratively.

The great, golden doors are flung with such force they slam into the walls and quake on their hinges. Wind rushes in, snuffing out half the lanterns. And in the sudden dimness, framed by the burning sunset behind him, stands Loki.

Everyone freezes.

He’s not in ceremonial clothes. Not even court attire. He wears black—fitted, sleek, like shadows made fabric. His hair is wild, wind-tossed. His eyes are fire.

He walks forward, slow and deliberate, each step echoing louder than the last.

The court parts around him like mist.

Hogun turns, eyebrows raised, but unmoved.

Odin doesn’t move either. His expression is stone.

Loki stops halfway up the dais and looks directly at me.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—I see it.

Him.

Not the mask. Not the cool, distant prince. Just… Loki. Breathing hard. Radiating fury and something else I don’t dare name.

“I challenge him,” he says.

No one speaks. The silence is thick enough to choke on.

Then Odin’s voice cuts through it: “Clarify.”

Loki doesn’t flinch. “I challenge Hogun to a duel.”

The nobles murmur. Confused, entertained.

“A duel?” Odin asks. “Over an insult?”

Loki’s chin lifts. “For Thor’s hand.”

The room erupts.

Not in laughter. Not quite. Just shock. Outrage. Excitement. Some cheer. Some shout. Some sneer. Hogun stiffens.

Odin lifts a hand and the room quiets once more.

“You are aware, son,” he says, tone dangerous, “that such a challenge is invoked only in rarest of cases. When an omega’s will has been defied—when a bond is unchosen.”

“He hasn’t chosen this,” Loki says, voice steady. “You chose it. For him.”

His eyes flick to me, and I can’t breathe.

“I am choosing now,” Loki says, louder. “I am claiming my right to fight for him.”

Odin narrows his gaze. “To the death, you understand.”

“Yes,” Loki says. “To the death.”

A stunned hush follows.

Then, Hogun laughs. “Do you even know how to wield a blade, boy?”

Loki tilts his head, smile cold. “Well enough to use it on your neck.”

More gasps. A few shocked chuckles. Hogun’s own warriors shift uneasily.

Odin says nothing for a long moment. Then: “So be it. The challenge is recognized.”

My legs nearly give out.

This isn’t real.

This can’t be real.

And yet Loki turns to look at me again—really look at me—and there’s no doubt.

It’s happening.

He’s doing this.

For me.

Our eyes lock, and I realize, with a terrifying clarity, that no matter who wins… something in us will never be the same again.

Notes:

There we go, ladies and gentlemen, more protective Loki scenes. You can expect another bloody murder description in the upcoming chapter(s). And, okay, maybe having Thor storm out of the room whenever shit gets real isn't the best, but he's just a lil emotional like that, okay? Love y'all<3

Chapter 13: The Fire Beneath Stone

Thor

The courtyard is silent. Not with peace, but with the kind of hush that comes before a storm—when the sky holds its breath and the earth waits for the first crack of thunder. That hush fills the ancient stone arena, the high walls lined with nobles and warriors, courtiers draped in furs and finery, eyes glittering with anticipation. But all I hear is my heartbeat. Loud. Relentless.

Loki stands at one end of the dueling circle, his hair tied back, eyes like cut glass. His coat is dark, embroidered with silver runes that gleam in the torchlight. He looks smaller than Hogun—less brute strength, more precision. But there’s something lethal in the way he moves, like a snake waiting to strike.

Hogun rolls his shoulders on the opposite side, his axe gripped loosely in one hand. He’s grinning—arrogant, sure. He's fought in campaigns. Killed men twice Loki’s size. He wears that confidence like armor, and I hate it.

Odin sits on his throne, expression carved from stone. Frigga is at his side, but her eyes are locked on Loki. I wonder if she sees it too—the rage simmering beneath my brother’s calm. The desperation.

Because that’s what this is, isn’t it?

Desperation.

For me.

“You do not have to do this,” I had told him, hours ago, when he finally appeared in my chambers after weeks of avoidance. But his answer was a quiet, cold, “I do.”

The crowd shifts. A bell sounds. And just like that, the duel begins.

They circle each other, slow at first. Testing. Measuring. Hogun swings first—heavy, brutal. Loki dodges. Barely. The edge of the axe kisses his coat, tearing the fabric. He doesn’t flinch.

Steel rings as Loki draws his daggers. Two of them, slender and sharp as moonlight. He moves like wind, fluid and unpredictable, striking quick, ducking beneath Hogun’s next blow. Blood spills—the first cut, Loki’s blade dragging across Hogun’s shoulder.

The crowd roars.

I can’t breathe.

They dance like that for minutes—if this can be called a dance. More like a violent rhythm, their footfalls pounding against the stone, each strike punctuated by grunts and snarls. Loki’s fast. Too fast for Hogun to catch. But Hogun is tireless. And eventually, speed tires. Precision falters.

Loki missteps. Hogun seizes the opening, grabs him by the arm and hurls him across the ring. He crashes hard. My chest lurches.

“Yield!” Hogun bellows, stepping forward.

Loki spits blood and grins. “Never to the likes of you.”

Then he’s up again, and suddenly he’s everywhere. His magic crackles around him, not enough to cheat, but enough to intimidate. Shadows cling to him like smoke. He moves in close and plunges a dagger deep into Hogun’s side.

The older warrior howls.

“Thor,” someone murmurs beside me. I glance—it’s Sif. Her hand is white-knuckled on the stone railing. “This is madness.”

Yes, I think. It is.

Because Loki fights like this isn’t just for my hand. He fights like this is for everything he’s ever wanted and been told he couldn’t have. Every moment in my shadow. Every time he’s been told to behave, to stay still, to be less. It all burns in his eyes.

The courtyard tastes like lightning.

Blood stains the floor now. Neither man untouched. Loki’s mouth bleeds. Hogun limps. But neither gives in.

Another clash. Sparks fly as their blades meet. Loki lands a punch to Hogun’s throat, then rolls away before he can be grabbed. Hogun hurls his axe—it scrapes Loki’s ribs, tears through fabric, and something red blooms. My hands grip the railing. I don’t even realize I’m standing.

“End it!” Odin’s voice thunders.

But they don’t.

Because Loki doesn’t want to just win.

He wants to prove something.

And Hogun?

He wants to destroy him.

Another blow. Another grunt. Loki’s knife goes flying. Hogun swings his fist and Loki stumbles—goes down hard. For a moment, everything in me seizes. Time slows.

Hogun lifts his axe.

And Loki moves.

Not back. Forward.

And then—chaos.

The blade descends.

Loki rises.

Their bodies collide.

Steel gleams.

And—

I don’t see what happens next.

Because just as the strike lands, the crowd surges to its feet, gasping, roaring.

I can’t see who’s still standing.

I just see blood.

And I scream his name.

Notes:

oopsies, a cliffhanger, lets hope i manage to finish the next chapter before the curse catches up to me... just kidding, i made it through the recent tornado season, ill make it through anything;)

Chapter 14: The Weight of Victory

Loki

I don’t know if I’m dead.

The world is dark, a churning soup of colorless noise and burning silence. I feel weight. Pain. Something pressing me down, pinning me to cold stone slick with—

Blood?

Yes. Blood.

My lashes stick together as I blink, once, twice. The sky overhead spins. My ears ring. I feel the thrum of my heart only when it hurts. I taste iron.

And then I realize it—there’s a body on me.

Heavy. Unmoving. A solid wall of muscle and weight sprawled across my chest, crushing the breath from my lungs.

Hogun.

His shoulder is at my throat, arm twisted unnaturally. I shift, wincing as pain blooms down my side—ribs bruised or broken, I can’t tell. My limbs are slow, thick with exhaustion and magic residue, but I move anyway. I have to.

With a strangled sound, I shove at the brute’s shoulder. He doesn’t stir. Dead weight—literally. I roll him enough to slip out from under, my hands slipping in something warm and thick.

My own blood, partially. But not all of it.

I breathe, and it’s ragged. My vision is smeared red. I reach up and touch my hair—slick and heavy. Blood mats it to my skull. A gash above my brow, perhaps. No time to care.

I kneel beside him, hands shaking as I find the hilt of my dagger still buried in his chest. Deep. Angled. Clean.

I draw it out slowly.

The blade slides free with a wet, sucking sound, and Hogun exhales one last, rattling breath that isn’t quite a breath at all. His eyes stare up, glassy. Wide.

I don’t look away.

I want to. I want to be the kind of man who flinches.

But I’m not.

I stare him down, just as I did when I lunged for him, just as I did when I let instinct take the reins, when I struck not for the win—but for the end.

I killed him.

I’ve killed before.

And yet… it’s not horror that grips me.

It’s not even regret.

It’s silence.

A strange, terrible silence inside me, like a storm that finally spent itself and left only wreckage behind.

A few feet away, someone gasps. I hear movement—voices rising like a tide. The duel is over. And I—

I won.

I stand, slowly, every muscle screaming in protest. The crowd is no longer hushed. There’s shouting. Clapping. Hysteria. Guards pour into the arena, unsure whether to drag me off in chains or lift me in triumph.

I look for him.

Thor.

My eyes scan the high edges of the courtyard, past Odin’s grim stare, past Frigga’s unreadable expression. And then I find him.

Standing.

Hands gripping the stone railing.

Mouth parted in disbelief.

His eyes—blue and wide and burning—are on me.

I can’t read them.

But they hold me there, steadier than the ground beneath my feet.

I lift my dagger, just slightly.

Then I let it drop to the floor.

I’ve made my claim.

And no one—not even the Allfather—can take it back now.

Notes:

a shorter chapter for today, as expected our beloved Loki won, but hows Thor gonna react? *gasp* i mean, i dont know yet either, im gonna be writing that tomorrow on the plane. so if we dont crash, ill probably let them finally be happy... maybe

Chapter 15: What Victory Tastes Like

Thor

I don’t remember when the cheers stopped.

Maybe they never started.

After Loki pulled his dagger from Hogun’s chest, there was a silence so sharp I could hear the blood drip from my own fingers to the marble floor. I didn’t even notice when it had started. Just that it was warm and sticky, and it made the ring on my hand twist against my skin.

They dragged Loki away from the body. I watched—frozen—as the guards hesitated before touching him, like he was made of fire. He didn’t resist. He didn’t look at me. His face was unreadable, his eyes faraway, as though he was already halfway out of the room. And maybe he was. Maybe he had been, for years now.

No one spoke to me. Not Odin. Not Frigga. Not the guards or nobles or the other alphas who’d lined up just a week ago to offer their hands. They all turned away like I’d been stripped bare, like I’d asked for this, like it was my fault.

Maybe it was.

Now I sit alone in my chambers, the door barred from the outside—not by order, but by implication. My engagement was not announced. My freedom was not restored. And Loki… Loki hasn’t come.

The bond between us crackles in the air like a storm trying to break. Every time I inhale, I swear I can still smell the way he smelled before the duel—like steel and frost and fury. The scent drives me mad. It sticks in my lungs and lingers in my throat, like I’ve swallowed something too big to name.

And still he doesn’t come.

The day passes in a haze. Servants avoid my eyes as they leave trays of untouched food. One leaves bandages. Another leaves a sealed letter from Frigga that I don’t open.

Night falls.

And still—nothing.

I lie back in bed and stare at the ceiling. My muscles ache. My chest is tight. And my mind, my cursed mind, keeps circling back to one question:

What if he only fought for me because he thought I was his to begin with?

What if none of this was about me at all?

Because Loki never asked. Not once. Not with words. Not with a look. Not even in the way his hand had closed around mine in the hallway before the duel, warm and trembling. He hadn’t asked.

And I had let him do it anyway. I’d let him fight for me. Let him bleed for me. Let him win me like I was a prize.

What if… I am?

What if I’m just something he wanted to claim, not someone he chose to love?

I press my palms to my eyes and breathe through the burn in my throat. It’s a stupid thought. Loki has always loved me—in his way, twisted and sharp-edged and strange. But I wonder now if he even knows how to love something without trying to own it.

I thought I knew him.

Now I’m not so sure.

I lie in the dark and wonder if he’ll ever come.

I lie in the dark and wonder if I want him to.

 

Loki 

I wash the blood from my hands three times before I realize it isn’t coming off.

Not because it clings to my skin, but because it’s not the blood on the surface that stains. It’s the kind that seeps beneath—the kind that marks you in ways no one else can see. Not unless they’re looking. And Thor—gods, Thor always looks.

He watched me, I think. I didn’t let myself glance his way after I stood. After I pulled the dagger free. But I could feel him like a second heartbeat in the room. Could feel his stare burn between my shoulder blades as I straightened, as I waited for someone to shout, to stop me, to drag me off to the dungeons.

No one did.

No one dared.

They fear me now.

I thought I wanted that.

I pace the length of my chambers until my bones ache. The fire’s gone out. The moon is high, silver light draping everything in the hue of ghost stories. I haven't changed out of my bloodied tunic. I haven’t spoken to anyone. I haven’t eaten. The palace is quieter than it’s ever been. Or maybe I’m just finally listening.

They let me leave the hall after an hour—long after the body was taken away, after Odin had someone clean the floor like nothing had happened. I didn’t see Thor again. He vanished into the crowd as if the moment never happened, like the silence between us is stronger than the bond we used to share.

And now, I don’t know what to do with myself.

Because I won.

I fought. I killed. I broke every rule of courtly order. And I did it for him.

I should feel triumphant.

Instead, I feel empty.

Not because I regret it. I don’t. Fandral was a snake dressed in armor, a predator parading as a suitor. He deserved the blade.

But Thor didn’t ask me to protect him.

He didn’t want this.

And the way he looked at me before they pulled us apart—hollow, unreadable, half-wrecked—I don’t know what that look means. I can’t read him anymore. I used to be able to. I used to know when he was angry, or anxious, or lying. But lately, he’s wrapped himself in something tight and impenetrable, and I don’t know if I’m still allowed past the walls.

I don’t know if he wants me there.

I sit by the cold hearth and run my fingers over the hilt of the dagger I used. I cleaned it, but it still gleams like something dangerous. Like something final.

Is that how he sees me now?

Just a weapon?

I close my eyes and try not to imagine him flinching away the next time I reach for him.

I try not to imagine him walking away.

But I do.

Because I’m a fool, and a monster, and somewhere beneath it all, still a boy who wants things he shouldn’t.

Chapter 16: The Space Between

Thor

The door creaks open before I can decide whether I want to see him.

For days, I’ve been waiting. Dreading. Longing. Imagining a thousand things I might say, only to unravel them all the moment his silhouette enters my chambers, cloaked in dark leather and moonlight.

He stands just inside the threshold, like he’s waiting for permission.

Like I’m the one who holds the power now.

“Loki,” I say, voice hoarse from disuse.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His eyes flicker to me, unreadable, and I realize too late that I’m still in my ceremonial robes—undone and wrinkled from where I’d collapsed on the chaise hours ago, trying to drink the memory of the duel out of my skull.

He walks forward slowly, deliberate, like I might bolt.

I think about it.

I don’t.

When he reaches the center of the room, he hesitates again. We stand there, a few paces apart, as if neither of us knows what to do now that there’s no sword between us.

“I didn’t expect you to come,” I murmur.

“You should have,” he replies. “I’ve killed for less.”

My chest tightens. “Is that what I am to you, then? Something to kill for?”

“No,” Loki says, sharper than before. “You’re what I kill over.”

I flinch. He sees it. Regret flickers behind his eyes.

We fall quiet.

The silence between us used to be comfortable. Used to be full of soft looks and lazy touches and unspoken laughter. Now it stretches taut and unbearable, like a thread one breath from snapping.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds.

“I know.”

“He could have—”

“He didn’t.”

“I didn’t want you to—”

“But I did.” Loki’s voice cuts across mine. “And I’d do it again.”

I turn away, moving to the window where the stars are smeared across the sky like wounds. “You don’t understand what this means. You’ve thrown the court into chaos. The council is divided, father is furious—”

“And what about you?” he asks, suddenly close. “Are you furious too, Thor?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know what I am.

Relieved? Terrified? Shattered?

Loved?

“Tell me,” he says, softer now. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I look at him then. Really look.

He’s tired. Pale. There’s a smear of dried blood in his hair he missed. But his eyes—gods, his eyes still hold that fire, that madness, that want. For me.

“I think I wish it could be simpler,” I whisper.

Loki steps forward, closes the distance between us. “It never will be.”

“I know.”

His hand hovers near mine, uncertain. Waiting.

I reach for him first.

 

Loki

His hand is warm.

It shouldn't surprise me—Thor has always run hot, a living furnace of stubbornness and sun—but it's different now. It grounds me. Burns me.

He’s the one who reaches first, and I’m the one who hesitates, which feels like some great reversal of fate.

But then his fingers find mine and hold.

Not tightly. Not possessively. Just... hold.

And suddenly I’m the one shaking.

I hate this. The way he looks at me. Like I’m made of glass and rage and something worth mourning. Like I haven’t torn open the very world he’s supposed to rule.

“You’re still bleeding,” he murmurs.

I lift a hand to my temple and feel it—tacky and half-dried, flaking like ash. “It’s not mine,” I lie, because it’s easier than saying I don’t care.

He doesn’t argue.

The silence returns, but it’s softer now. Heavy, but no longer brittle.

“You should hate me,” I say, tracing my thumb across the back of his hand. “I’ve made a mockery of your court. I’ve killed a man in cold blood. For you.”

Thor’s gaze doesn’t falter. “I don’t hate you.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

I want to kiss him.

Gods help me, I want to press my mouth to his and forget the weight of all the blood between us. I want to sink into him and pretend we’re not two princes born of war and prophecy, careening toward disaster like stars set to collide.

Instead, I whisper, “You were never supposed to be mine.”

He closes the distance with a step. “Maybe I always was.”

The words knock the breath from my lungs.

Thor brings our joined hands to his chest. I can feel the frantic flutter of his heart beneath my fingers, desperate and unguarded.

He leans in.

Close enough to count every freckle. Close enough to see the slight quiver in his lashes. Close enough that I feel his breath on my lips when he whispers, “If I say it, if I choose you—will you let me?”

My voice nearly fails me.

“I might burn everything for you,” I admit. “Even myself.”

Thor’s lips brush mine in answer.

Soft. Gentle. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

But I don’t. I kiss him back.

And for a moment, everything is quiet.

No council. No court. No crown.

Just this.

Just him.

Just us.

Chapter 17: Only Mine

Thor

The peace that followed our kiss didn’t last. Nothing ever does in this palace.

I haven’t seen Loki since that night. Not truly. We pass one another in corridors, fleeting glances over silver goblets and half-eaten feasts. His eyes never linger. Not anymore. But I feel him—gods, I feel him, like his scent has sunk into my lungs and refuses to let me breathe anything else.

I try to keep composed. There’s a role to play, after all. Prince. Omega. Future king. Betrothed—supposedly.

Except I’m not. Odin hasn’t said a word since the duel, and Hogun’s name hasn’t been spoken aloud since the pyre was lit. I’d been grateful for the silence, the stillness. But now I wonder if it’s just the breath before the blow.

The thought of being betrothed to anyone else makes me nauseous. It shouldn’t matter. Loki hasn’t said anything. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe I’m the only one who still replays the kiss, who aches for it again.

I’m in my chambers when he appears—no warning, no knocking, just the soft creak of the door and the familiar thrum beneath my skin as he enters.

“Close the door,” I say, too quickly.

He does. Wordlessly.

I turn from the window and meet his eyes. They burn gold in the torchlight. Not soft. Not cruel. Just… intense.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” I whisper.

“I had to think.”

“And?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

“I didn’t change my mind,” he says, stepping closer. “I still want you.”

My breath catches. My heart hammers.

He reaches for me—slowly, reverently—and tilts my chin with two fingers. I don’t pull away.

“But I can’t wait anymore, Thor. They’re circling. You know they are.”

I nod. The court is silent, but not still. The eyes, the whispers, the plans. I feel them like storm clouds gathering.

“I’m not letting them take you from me,” he says.

His voice is low. Dangerous.

I open my mouth to ask what he means, but he’s already moving—his hands on my shoulders, guiding me to sit on the edge of the bed. He kneels between my knees, looking up at me like I’m sacred and breakable all at once.

“Let me mark you,” he says.

I freeze.

“What?”

“Just a claimmark. Not the bond. It’ll fade in time, if… if you want it to. But it’ll keep them away. It’ll tell them you’re mine.”

I should say no. I should tell him it’s madness. 

But the part of me that should care about consequences is quiet. Drowned in the scent of him, the heat of his breath on my thigh, the raw need in his voice.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Do it."

He doesn’t ask again. He presses his face against the skin where my shoulder meets my neck and inhales deeply, groaning like he’s been starving. Then, gently, he sinks his teeth in.

It hurts. Briefly. Sharp, hot pain that gives way to something else—something that sets my blood thrumming.

He pulls back slowly, licking the blood from his lips like he’s tasting wine. His pupils are blown wide, his cheeks flushed.

“There,” he murmurs. “They’ll smell me on you now.”

I reach up, fingers trembling, and touch the fresh mark. It throbs beneath my skin.

It shouldn’t feel like peace. But it does.

Only mine.

 

Loki

I can taste his skin on my tongue—salt, warmth, life. He’s mine now. Even if he doesn’t fully understand it yet, even if he doesn’t want to, there’s no going back. 

Thor’s pulse thrums under my teeth, fast and frantic, matching the erratic beat of my heart. The world blurs, all I can see, smell, and feel is him. I pull back, and for a moment, I just stare. I almost can’t believe it. That mark I’ve left on him is real. No one can take that away from us.

His hand reaches up to touch the spot where I’ve bitten, and I watch the way his fingers tremble, unsure, like it’s both foreign and familiar at once. I shouldn’t feel proud of it. I shouldn’t. This is a claim. A challenge. It’s all a game. 

But I can’t help it. 

He looks down at me, his eyes wide—no longer soft like they usually are, but raw, intense. I’m not sure if it’s from shock or something else entirely. The silence between us stretches, thick and heavy, but I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s waiting. For what? For me to explain myself?

I’m not sure I can. Not when I’m so unraveled.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” I say, my voice low, almost too quiet to hear. The words taste bitter on my tongue. I never thought I would regret marking him, but the gravity of it—of the choice I just made—weighs heavy. Too heavy.

But his eyes—his eyes soften just a little. Just enough to make me forget my own name. The gentle tug of his breath as he inhales, the way his fingers still hover near the mark, just proves how real this moment is. How he’s feeling the same tension I feel.

“But you did,” he replies, almost like a whisper, like the words are something delicate, too fragile to speak too loudly.

His voice cracks through the air like a thread pulling taut between us, and for the first time, I feel like we might be on the same side. His hands come down to rest on my arms, the contact steadying me as much as it does him.

“You marked me,” he says, his lips barely moving, like he’s still processing the weight of it.

“I did,” I murmur. My breath catches in my chest, and I force myself to hold his gaze. “Because I can’t—I won’t—let them take you from me.”

His chest rises and falls with a deep, shaky breath. I can feel the conflict in him, just as I can feel the pressure that’s starting to build in my chest, too. The world isn’t as simple as it used to be. I can feel the changes, can smell them on the air, thick like smoke.

“What are we doing, Loki?” Thor asks softly, his hand slipping from his mark to the side of my face. He brushes a thumb across my cheek, and it’s too much. Too much. His touch, his proximity—it’s all so intimate, and yet we’ve only just started.

“We’re fighting,” I say, my voice trembling in spite of myself. “Fighting for something we can’t even define.”

The honesty in the words stings—hurts more than I want it to. More than I can admit.

Thor nods slowly, his eyes darker now, searching mine. He seems to understand. Maybe more than I do. Maybe it’s the bond, or maybe it’s just us, finally finding some semblance of clarity after everything we’ve been through. 

“I won’t back down,” I add, my voice growing firmer despite the unease swirling inside me. 

“I never thought you would,” Thor says with a slight grin, his eyes softening just enough to make me think he’s really *seeing* me for the first time in ages. It makes something inside me stir, a warm, dangerous feeling.

But I’m still Loki. I’m still the prince with the dagger, the one who fights in the shadows. The one who’s always been second to Thor in everyone’s eyes.

Even now.

I stand up suddenly, pushing away from the bed. I need to put space between us—space for the thoughts swirling like a storm inside me. 

“Where are you going?” Thor asks, his voice hesitant.

“I can’t stay here. Not now. Not when everything’s changing.” 

I don’t wait for his response. I can’t. Not yet.

I leave before he can say anything else, but I feel the weight of his eyes on my back. Like he’s waiting. Hoping.

And I wonder, for a fleeting moment, if it’s finally enough. 

But I don’t stop. Not yet.

Chapter 18: Bound in Darkness

Thor

The room is too quiet. The only sound is the faint rustling of the heavy curtains in the cool night breeze, and the soft, rhythmic thumping of my own heart, too loud for the silence that surrounds us. Loki is standing at the edge of my bed, his back stiff, his posture rigid, like he's about to leave. He’s always so distant, always keeping things at arm’s length. But tonight, everything feels different. It’s different because of what we shared earlier—what we almost shared. 

I know he's hesitant, conflicted. His mind is always racing, always calculating, but his presence... his presence feels like everything to me. I’ve never needed anyone like I need him now. 

But I can’t say it outright. I can’t beg him to stay. I don’t know how to.

I don’t even know what I’m feeling.

So, I stay quiet for a long moment, just watching him from my place in the bed, my pulse steadily quickening with every second that stretches between us. His expression is unreadable, the flickering light from the hearth casting shadows across his face. He looks tired, worn, like he’s fighting a battle inside himself. The usual walls around him are higher than ever, thicker than I’ve seen before.

I can't let him go. Not now.

“Loki...” My voice catches in my throat, and for a second, I almost say something else. I almost tell him to leave, to not do this, to not be here, but my mouth betrays me. 

“Stay,” I say before I can stop myself. 

The words hang in the air between us, raw and unfiltered, and I feel a small, desperate rush in my chest as they spill from my lips. I can’t take them back now. I’ve never felt more vulnerable, more honest, than in this moment.

Loki doesn't respond immediately. His eyes flicker toward me, and for the first time, I see something real in his gaze—a small crack in the armor he’s so carefully built around himself. He steps back from the door, but it’s almost a reluctant movement, like he’s still debating whether to walk away or stay. 

His eyes soften, just the slightest, and it’s enough to make me ache.

“What is it you want, Thor?” Loki asks, his voice low, almost a whisper. There’s something dangerous in it, something that makes my pulse spike.

“I want you here,” I say, louder this time, more sure of myself. “I want you to stay. I don’t know how to say it, but I need you. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and the air between us thickens. It’s almost suffocating, the weight of the unspoken things hanging in the space we’ve created. But Loki doesn’t leave. 

Instead, he steps forward. Slowly. Tentatively.

And that’s when it happens. In the stillness of the room, with the shadows of the night surrounding us, I finally see the truth in his eyes. He’s been waiting for me to say it, to make the first move, to make the decision for both of us. It’s always been me who hesitated, always me who feared the consequences. But now—now that I’ve spoken it aloud, there’s no turning back. 

Loki moves to sit beside me, his presence a burning weight beside me. His breath is warm against my skin, and I can feel his body trembling ever so slightly as he leans closer. His fingers brush against my arm, and the simple touch sends a shock of warmth through me. I want to pull him closer, to feel him, but I don’t.

Not yet.

“Thor,” Loki murmurs my name, like it’s a curse and a blessing at the same time. “What are we doing?”

It’s a question I don’t know how to answer. But when I look at him, I see the conflict, the yearning, and the same hunger I feel burning inside me. He’s struggling to keep control. I can see it in his eyes. But the moment he looks away, his gaze flicking down to the space between us, I know that he can’t keep holding back.

His hand moves again, this time taking mine, his fingers curling around mine possessively. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me to tell him to stop.

But I don’t.

Instead, I pull him closer. I don’t even think. I just need him. 

Loki’s lips are on mine before I can process it. His kiss is fierce, hungry, full of everything we’ve been too afraid to say to each other. It’s a desperate meeting, a clash of wills and hearts, both of us fighting to claim what we’ve both been too scared to admit we want.

His hands slide down my body, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us, and I feel every part of him, every sharp edge, every heated breath. My chest tightens, and I feel his scent surrounding me, intoxicating me. I breathe it in like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded, the only thing keeping me from shattering into pieces.

Loki doesn’t stop. His mouth moves to my neck, kissing, nipping, biting—marking me as his. And I let him, I want him to. Every inch of me aches for him, for this. I’ve known for so long that this would happen, that we would break. That it would be us, together, in the dark, with no one to stop us. 

I pull him on top of me, feeling the weight of his body against mine, pressing into him, needing him closer, deeper. The air grows heavy, suffocating, but neither of us cares.

It’s just him and me now. The world can burn.

It's quite instinctive, the way I spread my legs and glance up at him with wide, glossy eyes. With just a flick of his long, thin fingers, my tunic disappears off my body, leaving me fully on display for the alpha’s ravenous gaze. 

He leans down, claiming his place between my thighs. I’ve always been proud of my figure, all the muscles that I’ve built training among Asgard's best warriors, but under Loki’s piercing, cold gaze, I can't help but shiver, my hands shooting up to cover up my chest and stomach as if they have a mind of their own.

“Oh, no, no, pup,” Loki croons and clicks his tongue in disapproval as his long fingers wrap around my wrists, gently moving my hands to rest above my head. 

It takes me a while to realize how effectively he has me pinned to the bed, all bare underneath him. I can feel his free hand trace my jawline, then caress my neck. At the featherlight contact, I let out a desperate whine.

Loki only chuckles. “How adorably pathetic you are.” 

I can feel my cheeks heat up, and I would bet my crown that I’m blushing furiously, that my cheeks are redder than the sweetest strawberry. But not even my clear embarrassment causes Loki’s ministrations to cease, as his fingers are now tracing the muscles of my pectorals. I let out a squeaky gasp as his thumb brushes against my sensitive nipple. arching my back against the soft mattress.

“Please,” I gasp out nearly soundlessly, completely out of breath. 

"What is it that you want, pup?" the ravenette above me coos, and while I can hear the mockery in his voice, I pay it no mind.

"You," I whimper, my back arching into his hands. "Want you. Need you."

My begging, once again, only causes my brother to laugh, and—gods—that sound seeps directly into my bones and shakes my core, making my core clench.

"You need me, do you?" purrs Loki, positioning himself between my spread thighs. It only takes him a snap of fingers, a pinch of magic, to make my nightwear disappear, as if I've never worn it at all. Then, he snaps his fingers again—gods, those fingers, long and slender from hours of playing the piano, flicking book pages, and practicing magic—and my wrists are enveloped by a fizzle of green power, his magic holding me down and in place for him.

And so I'm all on display on the dark blue bedsheets, spread wide and open, welcoming, yet he's watching me like I'm something perfect, something he's never seen before. I fight the urge to squirm underneath his gaze, to attempt to cover up and regain my dignity, but I barely get the chance to think before he dives down between my thighs. 

First, I feel his tongue on my clit, and that moment surely makes me understand why they all call him silver-tongued. Gods, I want to gasp, but all air has disappeared from my lungs, leaving me at the mercy of the ravenous alpha. His tongue circles my sensitive nub, making me lift my hips off the bed to meet his lips. That, however, seems to displease him, as he takes one of his beautiful hands and places it on my lower abdomen, pushing it down to keep me in place.

"Loki!" I call out as I feel two of his fingers enter my slick hole, scissoring inside to heighten my pleasure. He still continues lapping at my clit, sucking on the bundle of nerves until I'm all spent and my legs are shaking and clenching around his head. 

"So fucking delicious," he muses as he lifts his head to face me, having finger-fucked me through the best orgasm of my life. "You taste divine, pup. And it's such a pretty cunt you have, too. So fucking pretty, and all for me."

His dirty words attack my ovaries directly, making my pussy clench around the void his fingers left.

"Fuck me," I breathe out. "Please, just... Gods, Loki, I need you."

"I'm gonna fuck you," my brother responds with a smirk, one of his hands already unbuttoning his leather pants. "I'm gonna breed your pretty little cunt until you're stuffed with my children, until my cum is dripping down your thighs."

I can only whine in response to his words before I feel the thick head of his cock nudging against my entrance. He's big, bigger than I'd ever imagined an alpha to be. My mouth gapes in a silent scream as his thick manhood slowly pushes inside my tight pussy, its veins brushing against my sensitive walls.

A squeaky moan escapes my lips when I feel him fill me up. I try to move my hands, to touch Loki, but my wrists remain locked in place above my head, and all I can do is clench my fists through the pulsating pleasure building inside of me. The sounds coming out of my mouth are borderline pathetic, but I cannot help myself with his thick cock stretching me out immeasurably.

My brother fucks me hard, and I lose track of time fast, my mind getting fuzzy in the euphoria of being filled by him. With a guttural groan, he comes, burying his face in the crook of my neck as he pulls out, cheekily smacking his cock against my already sensitive clit. My eyes roll back as his seed drips out of my abused hole. The chuckle that erupts from his throat makes me squirm, but he only nuzzles closer, tugging the comforter over our nude, sticky, sweaty bodies.

And so in the thick darkness of the night, Loki embraces me, his body wrapping around mine, his touch leaving a permanent imprint. And as the world spins into chaos around us, I don’t care. All that matters is that we are finally together, bound by our own rules, by the choices we’ve made.

Chapter 19: The Morning Crowned in Silence

Thor

My eyes flutter open to the feel of warmth—not just from the rising sun casting gold across the bedding, but from the steady weight of Loki curled beside me. His arm is slung across my waist. Our legs are tangled beneath the furs. He’s still here.

For a heartbeat, I almost forget everything beyond this bed, beyond him. The world feels quiet. Still.

Then memory rushes in like cold water: the bond, the claiming, the heat between us that snapped into permanence last night.

And now... the court. Father. The consequences.

Loki shifts against me, his breath brushing the hollow of my throat. He murmurs something low in Old Asgardian, a habit he’s never grown out of. I don’t speak it fluently, but the tone is soft, unguarded—like the boy he used to be. Not the prince, not the alpha. Just Loki.

I brush a hand through his hair gently, untangling a knot of sweat-dampened strands. “Loki,” I whisper. “Morning’s here.”

He stirs, blinking slowly, and when his eyes meet mine, there’s a flicker of panic before he remembers. Then something else—relief. He stays quiet, watching me, as if searching for any sign that I regret it.

“I meant what I said,” I murmur. “When I asked you to stay.”

He nods, barely. “I know.”

The silence stretches again, but not awkwardly. It’s thick with the weight of everything that now hangs over us. The bond has changed us—perhaps permanently. I can feel him like a second heartbeat. The scent of him is stronger now, woven into mine.

“You realize they’ll know,” Loki says finally, voice low. “Even if we said nothing. They’ll smell it. Sense it. Especially Father.”

I swallow hard. “Let them.”

Loki raises an eyebrow. “You’d face the court like this? Bound to me?”

“I’m not ashamed of it.” I sit up slowly, drawing the blanket with me, more for Loki’s sake than mine. “But I’m not foolish either. Odin will not take this lightly.”

“No,” Loki says. He’s sitting up too now, drawing his legs in beneath him like he might bolt at any moment. “He won’t. He’ll call it rebellion. Weakness. He’ll say you let yourself be compromised by sentiment.”

“He’ll say I let myself be claimed,” I say bitterly. “Like I’m an object.”

Loki’s hand brushes mine. “You’re not.”

I look at him. Truly look. “Neither are you.”

The knock comes sooner than expected. Three sharp taps. Then the door opens without waiting. Sif stands on the threshold, looking like she’s aged a year overnight.

She stops dead at the sight of us. Her expression shifts into something unreadable. But she says nothing.

“Your presence is requested,” she says after a beat. “By the Allfather.”

Of course it is.

The walk through the palace feels longer than any battle march I’ve endured.

Every servant we pass stiffens. Some avert their eyes. Others stare—at our joined hands, at the closeness of our steps, at the way Loki stays just behind me, not out of fear but strategy. Let them think I’m leading. Let them talk.

They will, regardless.

Sif walks beside us, her expression unreadable until we round a quieter corridor and she lets out a sharp breath through her nose.

“Well,” she mutters, voice pitched low. “Took you long enough.”

I stop mid-step. “You knew?”

She gives me a flat look. “Thor. I’ve known since we were children. The only people surprised by this are the ones who chose not to see.”

Loki tenses, but I feel him glance toward her, studying her for a lie. He must find none, because his hand tightens briefly around mine.

“You’re not… angry?” I ask.

Sif sighs. “Do I like it? No. But not because you’re together. Because you waited until now, when the entire court is foaming at the mouth for your bond. You gave them blood in the water.”

“We didn’t exactly plan the timing,” I say tightly.

“No one ever does.” She pauses, then adds, quieter, “But for what it’s worth—I hope you don’t regret it.”

I look at Loki. “I don’t.”

He doesn’t look away. “Neither do I.”

Sif exhales again, then squares her shoulders. “Good. Now keep your heads high. He’s waiting.”

The throne room doors are already open. That alone is a warning. Odin never makes audiences public unless he wants witnesses.

And there are plenty.

Alphas, nobles, council members—all gathered like carrion crows. The buzz of conversation cuts like blades as we enter. Our names fall like stones from their lips. Thor. Loki. Bound. Did you hear?

I feel it before I see him—my father. Odin stands at the base of the throne, not seated, not calm. His single eye is sharp and cold as it lands on me.

And colder still as it shifts to Loki.

He says nothing at first. Just watches, as we stop before him and bow in unison. I feel Loki’s reluctance beside me, but he lowers his head. For now.

“Rise,” Odin commands.

We do.

“You have made a decision without counsel,” he begins, voice loud enough to echo off marble. “Without permission. Without consideration of the consequences to the realm.”

I feel heat crawl up my neck. “I’ve made a choice for my own life.”

“You are a prince,” Odin snaps. “Your life does not belong to you alone.”

“It never has,” Loki mutters beside me.

Odin’s gaze snaps to him. “You have overstepped your place. I should exile you for what you’ve done.”

Loki doesn’t flinch. “Then do it.”

A breath catches in the court. I feel my heart stutter.

Odin steps forward. “You’ve ensnared my heir.”

“No,” I say, voice rising. “He didn’t. I chose him.”

Another wave of murmurs crashes through the court.

“I chose him,” I repeat. “You asked for a mate before I turned eighteen. I’ve chosen. You will not tear us apart.”

Odin’s expression hardens. “We will speak more. Privately.”

He turns on his heel. 

Audience over.

But not the war.

Notes:

i am so sorry for the late update, i kinda completely forgot that AO3 and this fic existed... but enjoy!

Chapter 20: What It Means To Belong

Thor

There are eyes on me now. Always.

And not the kind I’ve grown used to after years of court training and expectation—the polite, masked curiosity of nobles and sycophants. No. These eyes are sharper. Darker. Hungrier.

They belong to him.

Loki doesn’t walk beside me anymore. He trails just behind, no more than a step or two, close enough that I can feel his breath when I pause too suddenly. I catch glimpses of him in the corners of mirrors, shadows reflected in gilded hallways. His gaze burns like a brand down the length of my spine. It’s possessive in a way I can’t quite put words to.

And it should bother me.

It doesn’t.

We haven’t spoken of it. Not since the court, not since the bond was sealed, not since we woke tangled and warm in my bed, skin still marked by heat and blood and scent.

He watches me now like I might vanish if he blinks. It’s almost… reverent. Almost.

But there’s nothing reverent about the way his fingers brush my waist when we pass through narrow halls. Or the way he looms behind me during council, arms folded, jaw set, eyes dark. Like he dares anyone to speak to me too long. Like he’s itching to mark me again.

I should speak to him about it. Should pull him aside, remind him that while I may be an omega, I am also a prince, and I don’t need shadowed protection like a helpless thing. But I don’t.

Because the truth is… I like it.

Gods, that thought is dangerous. I bury it.

“Your Highness,” one of the new courtiers says, bowing low as I pass through the east garden. “Might I request your attendance for—”

Loki’s step shifts.

Just slightly. Barely enough to be seen.

But it’s enough.

The courtier’s smile falters. They glance behind me. Their voice stutters. “F-For another time, perhaps.”

I sigh. “Of course.”

They flee.

I turn.

Loki stands with his hands clasped behind his back, looking innocent and cold and utterly pleased with himself.

“Was that necessary?” I ask.

He lifts a brow. “Did you want to speak with them?”

“That’s not the point.”

He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his head slightly, as if already filing away the shape of my frustration for later study. Then he steps forward, invading my space so smoothly I barely notice it until he’s close—closer than propriety should allow.

I lean back instinctively. He leans forward.

“You smell like jasmine again,” he says softly.

I blink. “What?”

“Your scent. You’ve changed the oil.”

“I—yes,” I say. “Is that… bad?”

Loki hums. “No. But I prefer the pine.”

My face heats. “Well, you don’t get to decide what I wear.”

“I don’t want to decide,” he says, and there’s a strange softness to his voice. “I just… notice.”

I swallow.

This version of him—the one that devours the room with his eyes and steps like a predator and lingers like fire—it’s new. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s always been there, buried under layers of political civility and brotherly affection and centuries of unspoken longing.

Maybe it’s me who’s finally seeing it.

“Are you going to follow me all day?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

“Yes,” he says without hesitation.

I blink.

He steps closer again, now inches away, his breath warm on my cheek. “You’re mine now,” he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. “It would be foolish to act otherwise.”

My mouth goes dry. “We’re not at war, Loki.”

“No. But you’re still being watched.”

He turns his head then, gaze sweeping across the empty garden as if daring someone to step forward. As if ready to burn the whole kingdom down for me.

I don’t know whether to be flattered or terrified.

Possibly both.

“I can handle myself,” I say quietly.

“I know,” he replies, and something in his voice sharpens. “But I’ve seen too many of them look at you like they could handle you.”

I flush.

“You’re mine.” His voice is firmer now. “They need to remember that.”

“Loki…"

He meets my gaze again, and there’s something wild behind it. A storm, tightly leashed. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

The words hang there, waiting. Taut and electric.

But I don’t say them.

I don’t say anything at all.

Because I think… I like being watched by him. I like the way his gaze holds me, the way it steadies me, centers me. I like that in a world full of suitors and politics and fatherly control, there’s one person who looks at me like I belong.

Not to the court. Not to Asgard. Not to fate.

To him.

And I think—maybe I want to belong.

Just a little.

 

Loki

They look at him like he’s a gift the gods forgot to claim.

Every time he walks into a room—head high, jaw set, golden hair pulled back like sunlight bound in ribbon—they stare. They want. They covet. And I watch.

I always watch.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve become a shadow. Just something clinging to his heels, hovering at his shoulder, drinking in the scent of his skin like it’s the last thing keeping me from madness.

Other times, I know exactly what I am.

A monster.

A beast.

And worse—one in love.

His scent clings to my throat like silk and poison. It’s maddening. I can’t stop breathing it in. Jasmine, warmth, the faintest tang of sweat. It's not pine, not anymore, and it makes something violent churn in my gut. Not because I dislike it. Because someone else might.

Because someone else might love it, too.

I’ve imagined murdering half the court. More than once. More than twice.

The young noble from Alfheim who stared too long at Thor’s throat during supper. The alpha from Vanaheim who leaned in when Thor bent to pick up a scroll. Even that priest’s apprentice who blushed when Thor passed by in council robes that fit just a little too well.

They all want him. They all think they have a chance. They all think I am irrelevant.

They are so, so wrong.

Sometimes, I think about tearing their throats out with my bare hands. About dragging their bodies to the court steps and letting the blood pool like spilled wine.

Let them see what happens when you look at what’s mine.

And Thor—sweet, powerful, oblivious Thor—would look at me with those wide blue eyes and say my name like a question. Like a plea.

“Loki,” he’d whisper. “What did you do?”

And I’d lie. Or I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d tell him everything.

Maybe I’d make him watch.

I drag my hand over my mouth, trying to center myself. But it’s impossible.

His scent is still on my skin. Still in my mouth. I can taste him.

And it’s not enough.

The bond hums low beneath my ribcage, seared into my bones like a brand. I can feel him—his heart, his heat, his restless movement. The thread between us pulses with need.

But it’s not just want anymore. It’s ownership. It’s instinct. It’s something older and darker than anything the palace healers ever warned us about.

I don’t want to be near him. I want to have him.

Claimed wasn’t enough. Not truly. It was the beginning. A promise. But the world still looks at him like he’s up for the taking, and Thor—gods bless him—is still so kind. Still so open. Still so unafraid.

He doesn’t know how fragile peace is.

How fragile I am.

My hand tightens on the windowsill as I watch him walk through the courtyard with Sif, laughter trailing in his wake. Even she’s warmed to us now—though she still watches me warily when she thinks I’m not looking.

They all think I’m the villain in this story.

Maybe I am.

I’ve been thinking, lately. About measures. About symbols. About things that cannot be misunderstood.

A ring is political. A public announcement. Too simple.

A crown is for ruling. Not for keeping.

But a collar…?

A collar says everything.

I want one made of obsidian and enchanted gold. Something dark and sharp and permanent. I want it to lock around his throat, visible above every tunic, every armor strap. I want it to bite a little—not enough to hurt, not truly. Just enough to remind.

Every time he swallows, he’ll feel it. Every time someone looks at him, they’ll see it.

He’ll wear it for me. Only me.

And when I undo it—if I ever do—it will be my hands that touch the vulnerable place beneath. My fingers that trace the red indent. My teeth that leave the next mark.

I shouldn’t think like this. I know I shouldn’t. It’s wrong.

But gods, it feels right.

I imagine him kneeling before me in that collar, flushed and defiant and trembling—not in fear, but anticipation. His lips would part. He’d say my name, and I’d see it in his eyes: the knowing. The surrender.

Not submission. He’s not weak. Never weak.

But mine.

Utterly mine.

I press my forehead to the cold glass, breathing deep. Trying to steady the hurricane in my skull. The war between instinct and reason. Between love and control.

Because I do love him.

I love him so deeply it tears something open in my chest. It’s not lust. Not entirely. It’s need. Hunger. A wish to consume him completely—to be so entangled that neither of us knows where one ends and the other begins.

And yet… I’m afraid.

Not of the world. Never of the world.

Of him.

Of what he’ll think when he sees who I’ve become.

He hasn’t noticed yet. Not fully. He still looks at me with something like trust. Like affection. He touches my hand without flinching. Smiles when I brush his shoulder in passing.

But what happens when he realizes that the boy he once called brother has become something else entirely?

Not just an alpha.

Not just a protector.

Something darker.

Something dangerous.

Will he run?

Will he fight?

Will he look at me the way the others do—like a weapon barely leashed, like a monster with its fangs bared?

Or will he see what I see?

That we are not broken.

We are made for this.

 

Thor

At first, he just stops touching me.

It’s subtle.

No one else would notice, not really. He still walks beside me, still answers when I speak, still watches me like I hung the stars — but there’s a distance now. A hesitation.

His hand doesn’t reach for mine anymore when we pass through doorways or crowds. He doesn’t pull me close when I sit beside him in court. He doesn’t brush the hair from my eyes when I lie beside him in bed.

He watches, but he doesn’t reach.

And it’s driving me mad.

I don’t understand it. I thought… I thought things were good. Better than good. We’ve shared more than just words now. He’s mine — he said it, showed it, marked it. And I’m his. Gods, I am.

And yet now, he acts like he’s afraid to touch me.

At first I thought I’d done something wrong. Said something, maybe. Pushed too far.

But I’ve scoured every memory, every glance and breath and kiss, and I still don’t see the fracture. Just… a quiet pulling away. Like a tide slipping back before the storm.

He still looks at me like he wants to devour me whole. I catch it sometimes, those moments when he forgets himself — the sharp clench of his jaw, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding himself back. Like he *wants* something and it hurts.

But then he remembers. And the mask slides back into place.

Polite. Distant. Careful.

It’s the careful part that kills me most.

Loki was never careful with me before. Not like this.

He used to laugh when I tackled him in the halls or pinned him in the sparring ring. He used to dig his fingers into my hips like he wanted to leave bruises. He used to kiss me like we might die tomorrow — like there was no one else in the realm worth the breath.

But now?

Now he won’t even meet my eyes for more than a heartbeat at a time.

I’ve tried to ask. I have. But every time I do, he gives me some half-smile and says “I’m just tired” or “I have much on my mind.” He lies like he used to breathe — easily, carelessly. And I let him. Because the alternative is cornering him, and I don’t want to push him further away.

But I miss him.

And gods, it’s only been a few days.

I miss his hand on my thigh under the table. I miss the way he used to lean against me when we sat together in council chambers, his chin brushing my shoulder, like he couldn’t help but be close.

I miss the weight of his attention. Not the political kind — not the Prince of Asgard watching his fellow heir. No. I miss *Loki* looking at me like I was something sacred.

Now he just looks tired.

And haunted.

Tonight, I finally say something.

We’re walking back from the library — I had a late strategy meeting, and he’d vanished midway through the evening, only to reappear with two books and a quiet nod, like he hadn’t been avoiding me all day.

The halls are empty. Just us. The torches flicker along the stone walls, casting long shadows. I glance at him — his arms are folded tight, hands tucked into his sleeves like he’s afraid of them.

“Loki,” I say, softly. “Are you angry with me?”

He stiffens, doesn’t look at me.

“No.”

That’s it. Just that. No.

I stop walking.

He doesn’t notice until he’s a few paces ahead.

When he does, he halts, turns, and for a second—just one—I see it.

Guilt.

Not irritation. Not indifference. Guilt.

That hurts more than anything.

“Then why have you been avoiding me?” I ask, quietly. “Why won’t you touch me anymore?”

He exhales, slow. Controlled. Then says, “I’m not avoiding you.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” he repeats, more sharply. “I’m… giving you space.”

“Space from what?”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw clenches. His fingers flex once at his sides before he stuffs them back into his sleeves.

“Loki,” I say again, moving closer. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

That stops me cold.

“What?” I blink. “What do you mean?”

He looks at me then. Really looks. And what I see in his eyes makes my stomach twist.

There’s fear there. Real fear. Not for himself. For me.

“I just—” he swallows, voice hoarse. “It’s difficult. To be close to you. Right now.”

“I thought…” I pause, trying to find the words. “I thought things were good. Between us.”

“They are,” he says quickly. “They are. That’s the problem.”

I don’t understand. I want to, but I don’t.

“How can that be a problem?”

He shakes his head, closing the space between us until he’s right in front of me. But still he doesn’t touch me. Just looks.

“You make me feel things I can’t always control,” he whispers. “And I’m not… I don’t trust myself. Not when it comes to you.”

“You think you’d hurt me?” I ask, voice cracking.

He doesn’t answer. That’s answer enough.

I take his hand. He flinches, but I don’t let go.

“Loki,” I say firmly, “you’ve never hurt me.”

His eyes flick to mine, and something flickers there — longing, maybe. Or hope. Or just the shadow of it.

“I don’t want to be a monster,” he says.

“You’re not,” I whisper.

“I might be.”

“Then I’ll remind you,” I say, stepping closer. “Every time.”

He looks like he might cry. But he doesn’t. He never does.

He just nods once, tightly, and lets me pull him close.

And for the first time in days, he lets me hold him.

He doesn’t say anything else. But I feel it in the way he breathes against my neck. The way his arms circle my waist, tentative but real.

He’s trying.

Whatever storm he’s fighting inside, he hasn’t lost.

Not yet.

And I won’t let him.