“What Ulla wanted more than anything was something she could never have: a home. It burned in her, that desire. And the touch of his hand felt more like home than anything she’d ever known.”
—Back Towards Daybreak
Rune fatigue was no joke. I slept until the next morning, ate, and then went back to sleep for another half a day. When I was conscious, I felt positively useless.
Loki and I settled into an odd routine. He slept in the bedroom across the kitchen from mine. He woke me for meals, all of which he cooked, though he ate next to nothing himself. Then I would check his wounds and attempt to stay awake for a while longer, if for no other reason than to give him a little company.
It hurt to see Loki so dejected. He had been silenced, just as Brok had planned, and even when his eyes lit up, ready with a joke, he’d open his mouth, and the pain would stop him. He reopened the wounds twice that way. I was still too weak to heal him, and he was too proud to go to anyone else. He learned not to smile at all.
The two of us made for a lazy, forlorn pair. We spent our days playing dice games at the table or curled up in opposite chairs in the study with a book. I spoke more than my fair share, telling stories about godly dramatics that he had missed while he was gone or things that had happened to me over the years. I did it to fill the silence, but somehow, I knew that he would have listened even if he’d had his voice.
◦ ● ◦
I knocked on the door to Loki’s room. It was already open, and he was sitting on his bed reading a book, the deep blue cover reading Back Towards Daybreak.
His room. His bed. How quickly things had changed.
He looked up and a slight smile slid onto his features. “Well, hello.”
It had occurred to me many times that the realms would be a duller place if he never smiled or laughed again, and to see him trying it on, no matter how subtly, gave me hope.
There was nothing on his feet and a pair of soft tan trousers were the only stitch on his body. He was clearly ready for bed, but he knew I’d be coming, like I did every night. I went to the side of the bed and sat down at his side, spreading out the supplies I’d brought with me: poultice, a damp cloth, a jar of salve.
Loki marked the page and sat up, legs crossed beneath him. All routine now.
“Let’s see what the damage is.”
“Damage? That’s my face you’re talking about.”
“Oh, how I have missed your biting wit,” I teased, leaning forward to take hold of his chin. I tilted his face so I could see his lips in the firelight.
Their condition had improved immensely. They’d stayed closed for days, even if he smiled, and it seemed like it would stay that way. I squinted, focusing on one of the thin scars that ran into the meat of his lip, one that had been especially fussy. The silver started above the bow in his upper lip and tore a deep line into the curve of the flesh. I touched it gently with the pad of my finger, but he didn’t flinch.
I looked up, realizing that I’d drawn my face so close that there was barely space for a breath between us. I blushed. While I’d been inspecting, those curious emerald eyes had been watching me. That look was so soft, so utterly at peace. And in that long, drawn-out moment, my heart hammering in my chest, his hand rose up. His fingers delicately tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, lingering to slide along my jawline.
His lips pursed and loosened again. My breath hitched, so focused on the imperfect curve of his mouth, that look in his eyes like he was waiting for something. For me to make a move. The longing coiled inside of me until I couldn’t resist the one thing on my mind. I leaned forward and kissed him.
It was such a nervous, impulsive, desperate kiss that I immediately felt ashamed and pulled away. It was sloppy, I was sure of it. And who was I to assume he’d wanted to be kissed? Friends touched each other’s hair all the time, didn’t they?
But then his hand cupped the back of my neck, keeping me from retreating. He drew me in again. His lips were soft, even with the imperfections, each brush against mine sparking like flint until I was certain that the warmth would melt me. He pulled me closer, leaning back against the headboard, making me chase his kisses. Gods did I want them. My hands found his shoulders, trailing my fingertips over the lean muscle of his chest. The feather-light touch coaxed a deep breath from him, his lips resting against mine for just a moment, and his grip tightened on me, like he was holding back. I wondered if I had ever truly wanted anything in my life the way I wanted to see where that kiss could lead.
I drew away. It would lead nowhere.
This longing was so familiar. Wanting something so badly, being so close to having it. But what future was there in a kiss from Loki? I could already hear the scorn from the others in Valhalla. Thor, Sif, Freya.
Odin.
He would never approve. He never did.
It would be just like before, and I couldn’t break like that again.
Loki’s brow furrowed as I pried his hand from its root in my hair. He’d felt my eagerness, I knew that. It would have been impossible not to. Underneath the doubt, I felt it too.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, still close enough to whisper. The smokey silk of his voice was so foreign now, so rare and precious. There were so many sounds I wanted to hear him make, the sigh of my name among them, but—
I disentangled myself from his hands and got off the bed. “No. Yes. I don’t…I just can’t.”
I gathered my things, a small part of me hoping that he’d say something, that he’d reach out and pull me back into his arms. But he just sat there and watched as I left, shutting the door behind me.