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The doors of the great hall slammed shut behind them, muffling the music and the hum of Asgardian aristocracy.
Sigyn didn’t even slow down.
Her heels struck sharply against the palace’s marble floor as she turned into a side corridor, one hand lifting her gown, the other gripping the silver mask she had abandoned halfway through the gala. On her nose gleamed special darkened glasses—enchanted to protect sensitive elven eyes from Asgard’s harsh light.
Behind her came a low, velvety laugh.
“You know that fleeing a royal gala will only fuel the rumors?”
She glanced back over her shoulder. The lenses of her tinted glasses caught the torchlight, reflecting it in thin glimmers.
“They were already gossiping.”
“They were admiring,” he corrected softly.
She stopped so abruptly he nearly collided with her.
The air between them thickened with proximity.
She turned slowly. The slit in her gown fell wider, revealing a glimpse of her thigh. White tattoos beneath her skin pulsed as if alive—light gliding along the lines, responding to the quickening beat of her heart. The sigils shimmered with energy, synchronized perfectly with her pulse.
Loki’s gaze slid downward. He didn’t even try to hide it.
“Careful,” she murmured. “You’ll trip over your own ego.”
“I trip over far more interesting things.”
Even though he hadn’t touched her, her shoulders tensed instinctively, a thin, treacherous shiver racing down her spine. He leaned in just slightly. His breath brushed her neck.
They were alone. This corridor belonged to the palace’s private wing. Torches flickered against golden walls, and moonlight spilled through tall windows.
Silver sparks danced across her fingertips—light, teasing, as though a living current flowed beneath her skin. She snapped her fingers. At the end of the corridor, heavy doors slammed shut with a dull thud, and the air seemed to close around them.
Loki raised a brow.
“A warding spell?”
“A privacy spell.”
She lowered her glasses. The frame slid down the bridge of her nose as she looked at him over the lenses—slowly, unhurried, as though revealing more than just her eyes.
Loki inhaled.
“The All-Father will be delighted when he discovers his palace has become the stage for our… unofficial negotiations.”
“The All-Father isn’t invited.”
She walked past him. Her hip brushed his hand. Silk slid over his fingers—smooth, cool, yet beneath it he could clearly feel the warm, resilient line of her body.
He caught her wrist. His hand was cooler than her skin. The contrast in temperature was sharp, almost electric. Beneath his touch, her tattoos flared with white light.
“You were dazzling tonight,” he said more quietly. “Every lord in that hall was watching.”
“And that bothered you?”
“On the contrary.” His thumb traced the glowing line along her arm. “It means they know what they can’t have.”
Her lips curved into a half-smile.
“And what, in your opinion, do *you* have, prince?”
He stepped forward until her back met the cold wall. The stone was hard and icy, stark against the warmth of her body.
“You.”
Sigyn tilted her head. The white marks on her neck pulsed with light.
“Bold.”
“Accurate.”
Magic spilled through the corridor like a wave of heat. The torches dimmed. The air grew dense, warmer, heavier. Illusory silver petals began to swirl around them, brushing their shoulders like soft, cool touches.
“You’re showing off,” he noted.
“I spent years without my power. Let me enjoy it.”
He leaned closer. His lips hovered near her ear. He smelled of mint and sandalwood.
He exhaled slowly. Warmth traced the length of her neck, beneath her jaw, to the sensitive skin just above her collarbone.
Her fingers clenched instinctively in the fabric of his shirt. The silk was smooth, but beneath it she felt the tension of his muscles, a subtle tremor.
“You’re jealous.”
“I’m territorial.”
“About me?”
“About everything that breathes in your direction.”
A shiver ran down her spine—stronger this time.
“My breath just made you tremble,” he whispered.
She lifted the glasses slowly, removing them entirely, and looked straight into his eyes.
“Did it?”
His gaze darkened.
“Can you imagine what my tongue would do?”
The space around them shuddered, as if the air had been stretched taut between two points.
In the next instant, they were in his chambers. The door closed softly. The dimness here was warmer, more intimate.
This time, she pressed him against the wood. The hard surface struck his back with a dull sound.
“Careful, Loki,” she whispered. Her hand slid over his chest. The fabric was cool, but beneath it his body responded—his breath quickened, muscles tightening under her fingers. One subtle brush of magic, and the golden embroidery dissolved into green sparks that drifted to the floor. “You’re not the only one who knows how to make someone tremble.”
His breathing grew shallow.
“Sigyn…”
“Yes?”
Her hands moved lower, unhurried, exploring the line of his torso. Beneath her fingers she felt taut muscle—and cold. His skin was always slightly cooler than it should have been.
Loki pulled her closer. There was no space between them now. His hands tightened at her waist, feeling smooth skin beneath his fingers and the subtle pulse of her tattoos.
“I left the gala because you looked bored.”
“I was planning an exit strategy.”
“For political reasons?”
“For you.”
The magic around them faded into a soft twilight. Her glasses lay forgotten on the table.
“If anyone asks,” he murmured near her lips, “we were discussing diplomacy.”
“Of course.”
She kissed him. Deeply. Her lips were warm, soft, decisive.
When they pulled apart, both were breathing faster. Skin against skin. Heat and cold entwined like their seiðr.
“They’ll talk tomorrow,” he said quietly.
She rested her forehead against his. His skin was warmer now than before.
“Let them.”
The music from the gala still echoed faintly in the distance.
But they weren’t running anywhere anymore.