The evening had been… exhausting.

He didn’t show it in the moment—of course he didn’t. Loki was a master of masks, after all. The same man who had once tricked entire kingdoms into believing he was something he wasn’t could certainly sit through a party with a glass of wine in hand, smirking just enough to appear charming while something unholy boiled beneath the surface of his skin.

It had started innocently enough. A formal event. She’d worn that damn dress—form-fitting, soft, that color that made her skin look like it glowed under candlelight. And of course, she hadn’t even meant to torture him. That was the worst part. She never did. She simply existed in that body, in that form, unaware of the way her curves commanded the room. The way her hips moved like a promise and a threat all at once.

Loki knew. He always knew. He saw the way eyes followed her. The hunger behind polite smiles. The lingering stares when she leaned down to pick something up or shifted her weight and her thighs kissed each other just right.

And he’d bitten his tongue. For her. Let her talk and laugh and sip wine while one particularly bold man had the audacity to place a hand on her lower back when they passed through the crowd. Loki had nearly crushed the wine glass in his grip.

But now?

Now they were home. The silence was thick, almost oppressive, as she moved around their shared bedroom—peaceful, calm, like nothing was wrong. Like he hadn’t spent the entire evening watching wolves circle what was his.

She was standing at the dresser now, back turned, taking off her earrings one by one. Slow. Unbothered.

It was infuriating.

Loki leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw tight enough to ache. He’d taken off his coat, tossed it somewhere he didn’t care to remember. Still in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fingers drumming against his bicep.

His eyes didn’t leave her—not once. He was cataloguing every inch of her exposed skin, the way her dress clung to her hips, the movement of her thighs as she shifted her weight.

Possessiveness coiled in his gut like a serpent.

Because it wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just that he craved the feel of her thighs wrapped around his hips or his face buried between them (though he did, gods help him, he did). It was deeper than that.

It was the sacred, terrifying knowledge that this woman—this curvy, calm, maddening woman—was his anchor. The only thing that ever made him feel seen. Real. And the thought of losing her? Of someone else thinking they could even touch her?

It made his blood boil.

She finally noticed the tension in the room when she looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror. Calm, as always. Soft lips, steady hands. But Loki? He was vibrating with it now.

He pushed off the doorframe, stalking forward until he was behind her, his hands curling around her waist—not soft, not rough, but firm. His thumbs dug into the swell of her hips, pulling her back into him, flush against the evidence of how badly he wanted her.

He bent his head, nose brushing her hair, voice gravel against her skin.

“Tell me, sweetness… did you like the way he touched you?”

His grip tightened just enough to draw a breath, not quite pain, but a warning—a reminder.

“Or did you just enjoy torturing me with what everyone else wants but can never have?”