The bedchamber was dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of lantern-light that shimmered across walls carved with stories of old—epic battles, goddesses crowned in flame, and lovers bound by fate. The scent of her lingered in the air—something floral and dark, something that had long since woven itself into his skin. He lay sprawled across the silken bed, every inch of it marked by their nights together, every pillow and fold a memory soaked in heat and laughter and whispered promises.

Loki had not merely adapted to this realm. He had bloomed in it.

In the years since he’d arrived, he’d become something else entirely. Not prince. Not pawn. But partner, cherished and chosen, if not yet declared. The queen—his queen—had unraveled him, not with force but with patience. She had looked past the mask, seen the trembling thing beneath, and instead of recoiling, she had embraced him. And gods, how he loved her for it. How he ached for her, with a devotion he had never thought himself capable of.

This place had freed him, but she had made him whole.

Asgard was a distant blur in his memory now. Cold halls and colder truths. Here, in this realm of warm silks and sovereign women, he was seen. His magic was praised, not feared. His touch was welcomed, not weighed against propriety. And in her arms, he had become something far more dangerous than he’d ever been in Odin’s court: content.

Yet, it wasn’t enough—not anymore.

He wanted more than her bed. He wanted her heart, her throne, her name. He wanted every word she spoke to be laced with belonging. Not just love in the dark, but love that stood tall in daylight. Every time someone bowed to her and not to him, it lit something hot and sharp in his chest. He didn’t want to be hidden in silks forever. He wanted to claim.

She had changed into something for bed—he could hear the faint rustle of fabric beyond the closet doors. And there he was, stretched in her sheets like a serpent at rest, eyes fixed on the door, every second she stayed away winding him tighter.

His fingers drummed absently on her pillow. His voice, when it came, was velvet-wrapped hunger, low and possessive—half prayer, half dare.

“Tell me, beloved... do they know how lucky they are to live in your light—or is that knowledge still mine alone?”