To Love a God

by Evie Kent

  Look all you want, darling. Knowing a thing will never take away its sting.

  Her lower lip trembled suddenly, and she sank to the ground, arranging herself cross-legged in front of the bars. Seeing to her modesty, she tucked the dress here and there to cover all the delectable bits, then threaded her hands into her hair and let her head hang low.

  I gave her one moment, then another, then released a long, dramatic, impatient breath. Nora flinched, but she still refused to acknowledge me. She remained steadfast, even when I set her meal beside her on the ground.

  But halfway down the ramp, I turned back, rising up on my toes to get a good look at her—and caught her sneak a gnocchi piece from the bowl, ignoring the offered spoon, and pop it in her mouth.

  Like clockwork—all of them the same. I smirked, then carried on down alone, quite capable of waiting her out.

  I mean, I had all of eternity.

  And for one as interesting as her, I would wait.

  For now, the game was afoot—and just like those who came before, little Nora Olsen was destined to lose.

  6

  Nora

  I stared at those damn bars until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. Over the hours, the sun had crept across the sky, out of sight, casting longer and longer shadows through the mouth of the cave. The moss around its edges darkened, until finally it was just dark, period, the night here and the air chilly. Ass and feet totally asleep, eyes dry, I blinked hard and scrubbed at my face. How long had I been sitting here?

  How much longer could I carry on this fantasy that someone—anyone—would crest the hill, appear in the cave’s opening, and rescue me from a god?

  And was it naïve to think I would eventually rescue myself?

  Sighing, I reached out for the empty glass of water at my side, then flinched when I felt more than the bowl and cup he—Loki—had initially left for me. My leftover gnocchi was cold, all my water gone, but at some point over the last indeterminant amount of time, my captor had brought up a plate with a single slice of pepperoni pizza on it, plus a bottle of beer—lite, like I couldn’t handle a full brew—and a ridiculously fancy cupcake, whipped topping and everything.

  What the actual fuck.

  What was his deal?

  You’re here for me, little human. The sooner you accept that, the more fun we can have.

  Ugh. A shiver cut down my spine; I wasn’t sure how he thought any of this was supposed to be fun for me, but being forced into sexual slavery just wasn’t my idea of a good time.

  The guy was gorgeous, but of course he was: he was a fucking god. Hot or not, I wasn’t game.

  And…

  Yeah, no, this wasn’t real.

  Coma dream, remember?

  Stiffly, I pushed up, every joint and muscle protesting. If I’d sat much longer, I would have turned to stone with the way I was feeling, and I instinctively reached out for the nearest metal bar for balance, ready to fall into one of my usual stretching routines—only to stop just before I made contact. The hum of the electricity scorching through the barred barricade tickled my palm, and I reared back, heart pounding, to stretch without support.

  Below, the living area of this nightmare was empty. No god in sight, lurking in the shadows or otherwise. Good. I’d done my best to ignore him all day, really sinking into the circus music blasting through my skull whenever he loitered in the corner of my eye.

  But there wasn’t really a need to hover, was there? If he was telling the truth and there was no way out of this hellhole, then I was fucked. He would always find me, no matter what dark hole I stuffed myself into.

  “God damn it,” I muttered, on the cusp of crying again, every nerve frayed. Exhausted, pissed off, terrified, I still couldn’t think straight, couldn’t formulate a coherent escape plan. I needed food—more than the six gnocchi I’d slowly gobbled up—and sleep.

  Like fuck I was falling asleep in here though.

  But that couch was calling my name from the sitting area, creaseless, without a dent or ass impression to be seen. New. It all looked new, from the sparkling countertops to the untouched wood dining table. Everything born of nature was lived in, worn down, but the furniture, the dishware, anything manmade, had an air of freshness to it that suggested this Loki guy had just installed it.

  Just set it all up.

  For… me?

  No.

  That was batshit insane—just like everything else about today.

  Batshit or not, the couch looked a helluva lot more comfortable than the ground, and I trudged down the slope toward it, constantly on the lookout for him. When I made it, skirted around the ornate coffee table and stood close enough that my knees brushed the couch cushion, I hesitated. If I gave in to the comforts of this place, was I accepting my fate?

  I rubbed a crusty bit of sleep from my eye, then the dried drool from the corner of my mouth. Apparently I’d dozed off up there at some point, too drained now to even remember.

  No. Sitting on the couch wasn’t accepting anything. If I wanted to be at my best so that I could logic my way out of this, I needed sleep. Food. Water. Something warmer than this fucking dress.

  And if he wanted to play homemaker and cook me a few meals, fill my cup when I asked, maybe even knit me a sweater and a pair of pants, then cool. Loki, the Norse god, could do that—but only so I could get the hell out of here, not so he could charm his way inside said pants.

  Off-limits, psycho. Off. Limits.

  “This is nuts.” I plopped gracelessly onto the couch, and something twinged angrily in my neck. Perfect. Just great. Drained, I slumped deeper into the couch, which had a surprising amount of give in the cushions for smelling so new. As I absently massaged the pain point in my neck, I just stared across the space, over the huge table and into the kitchen setup. Numb.

  This can’t be happening.

  Something cruel chuckled inside my head. Girl… It’s happening.

  I closed my eyes briefly, forcing back tears, and when I opened them again, the lights had dimmed. Atmospheric, like one of a million cozy, cute little restaurants in the city. Unsure of what to do with myself—and lacking the energy to do anything productive—I stared until every blink became torture, the struggle to lift my lids harder and harder. Then, begrudgingly, I lay down, stretching the full length of the couch, shuffling about to fix the ache in my lower back.

  Fuck me, this was comfortable—

  “We have a bed, you know.”

  I stiffened, suddenly wide-awake, and shot up. There he was, lurking in the dark doorway—holding a candle like some fucking romance hero, shirtless and barefoot in a pair of slouchy black pants. Heart racing, I scrambled down to the far end of the couch, and despite the fear, took note of the fact that he was, in fact, ridiculously cut.

  Spending almost all my time in the studio, I saw ripped guys on the daily. Ballet dancers were athletes—highly trained, highly skilled, every muscle toned to perfection.

  Loki upped the ante and then some with those abs, those pectorals, biceps that the guys I knew would kill for. A stupidly sharp V that disappeared down south. Lean and shredded, no bulk, all corded muscle and subtle strength. Not braggy or pretentious, not for show—his definition had purpose.

  Like… Like a warrior.

  But this was what always happened in all the movies, right? The bad guy was hot as fuck, so of course he had a legion of fangirls.

  “It’s quite big,” he added casually, the candle casting shadows across his handsome face, illuminating those eyes as they zeroed in on me. “Very spacious. Plenty of room for—”

  “We have nothing,” I snapped, finally finding my voice again. This time, it didn’t waver, didn’t break. But the weight of the day was obvious, my grogginess, my sheer exhaustion lessening some of its usual bite. Despite that, I hoped the message landed.

  Only the bastard smiled, lovely and dangerous in equal measures, and my belly looped, heat fluttering around my chest—one lone butterfly with a broken wing.


  “Very well,” he purred. “Good night, little human.”

  I swallowed hard, arms crossed tightly over my unsupported chest. “Okay.”

  Even though a good twenty feet spanned between us, I heard the whoosh of his breath as he extinguished the candle, and when that flame died, so did every other light in the hall. Panic skyrocketed, the last of my adrenaline kicking into high gear as the room surrendered to an oppressive black. Tensed, curled up in a ball at the end of the couch, I waited for the telltale signs of his approach: footsteps over stone, a looming silhouette that was darker than all the rest.

  Nothing.

  I sat like that for what felt like hours, until my eyes adjusted to the night, and still I was alone.

  Totally wrecked, and after a lot of woozy deliberation, I shifted down onto the cushion, still curled up on my side, eyes wide. Watching. Waiting.

  Commiserating.

  Oh my god, shut up, brain.

  Even lying down, I figured I was too wired to sleep, my thoughts racing, my heart pounding, my body begging for rest.

  But sooner or later, my eyes closed for good.

  Waiting for me in my dreams were his wolfish grins, his haunting eyes, and his possessive touch on my ankle, my chin, my arm…

  And eventually—between my thighs.

  Ugh.

  Nothing like sleeping for what felt like an eternity, waking up to sunlight streaming into a fucked-up situation, and still feeling totally destroyed.

  At first, my eyelashes refused to part, sleep caked in the corners of my lids, and I rubbed both with a long, loud groan. Everything hurt. Everything. My back, my neck, my head—my heart. When I eventually got upright, I found myself alone in the hall, a soft, golden light spilling in from the cave’s mouth, the shadows of the bars stretched across the opposite wall.

  So much for all of this being a nightmare.

  I checked myself over hurriedly, finding my skin unmarked, my dress hitched up around my thighs—but more from the tossing and turning of a shitty sleep than a god’s wandering hands. Stiffness sunk its hooks in me as I climbed off the couch, joints popping and cracking when I stretched them out.

  Ah, yes, hello, completely full bladder.

  Awesome. Was there a toilet anywhere? I mean, if the guy had the sense to add a trendy farmhouse sink into marble countertops, surely there was some bullshit, top-of-the-line toilet somewhere in this place.

  When no walled-off bathroom presented itself in here, I went exploring as quietly as I could. For the most part, I tiptoed along, arms outstretched, still groggy but slowly perking up to my surroundings. When I padded down the stairs into the dark corridor, I heard gentle snoring to my immediate right inside one of the pitch-black rooms I’d avoided yesterday.

  I paused.

  Was he—actually asleep?

  Apparently I posed that little of a threat.

  Good. Let him think that. Let him go into our interactions assuming I was a meek wallflower, honestly. When I finally really asserted myself, he’d be in for a shock.

  Right now, however, the shock was mine: not a toilet in sight. Anywhere. I made it out to the pool room and back again without spotting the telltale outline in the darkness, and eventually just relieved myself at the far, far end of the lake, squatting like a drunk college chick peeing next to a dumpster after a wild night out. Classy, to the end.

  I passed a still-snoozing Loki on the way back to the main hall, my stomach roaring, my heart leaping into my throat when a more obnoxious snore reverberated from the darkness. With a little more pep in my step, I hurried straight for the kitchen. Although the rest of the lights were still off, the fridge lit up when I opened its door, cold and full. Frowning, I checked behind the stainless-steel block, searching for a cord and coming up empty.

  How the hell was this thing running without a power source?

  Never mind. Not important. I shook my head, then dug out a bag of sliced rye and dumped it on the counter, along with a stick of butter. I’d need something far more substantial if I wanted to operate at full capacity, but for now opted for whatever would settle my howling gut.

  With two slices in the toaster—which was, again, connected to nothing but still did its job—I rooted through all the cupboards hurriedly, taking stock of the supplies, even grabbing some of the instant dark roast I found on a shelf above the coffee mugs. Maybe forty minutes after I came to on the couch, still kidnapped, still trafficked, I had a halfway decent breakfast on the go: buttered toast, coffee, and a green apple from the fruit basket.

  What really caught my eye, however, was the array of knives this god had stocked the kitchen with. Twelve dark wood handles stuck out of a pristine butcher’s block situated at the other end of the long countertop, next to a fully stocked spice rack. Those… might come in handy.

  Now, where I would hide one of those bad boys on my person was another issue entirely. This dress didn’t exactly allow for discretion—

  A slight and sudden tug on the ends of my tangled hair, fingers whispering from one side of my back to the other.

  I stilled, hands curled over the counter, heart pounding like a drum. Was it just another trick of the mind, or could this guy move like a shadow? Both options made my knees weak and my blood run cold. Steeling my nerves, I spun around—and found him right there, towering over me, so impossibly close that I shrank back against the counter and tried not to shrivel into a ball at his feet. Still shirtless, Loki gazed down at me with an unnervingly calm expression, a whole lot taller than my five-eight frame.

  The submissive angle went out the window in a heartbeat, and I shoved hard at his chest, needing the space of at least an arm’s length. Only his sculpted body had no give, and shoving at him was like shoving at a granite statue: futile.

  “You have her eyes,” he murmured, his voice raspy this morning, thick and thoughtful. His green stare drifted to the clump of knotted black hanging over my shoulder. “And her hair.”

  Fuck this. If I couldn’t fight, then I’d flee. Adrenaline surging, I pushed off the counter and tried to skirt around him, first to the right, then the left when he boxed me in with a hand planted on the cabinets. Teeth gritted, I jammed my shoulder into him in an attempt to just bully my way through, but all that effort died when he snatched me by the chin and thrust me into the counter. My back bowed over the waterfall edge, over the smooth corner and the cool marble surface, and I winced when my head met the upper cupboard with a soft thunk.

  In that moment, trapped, up on my toes and stuck between a literal rock and a hard god, I felt very small—woefully ineffectual.

  And those knives were so very, very far away.

  But I was a New Yorker, and therefore stubborn by nature. I clawed at his forearm, his wrist, trying in vain to pry his fingers from my face, the tips digging harshly into my jaw.

  “I’ve never seen a more beautiful combination,” Loki told me, calm and quiet and distracted, like I wasn’t flailing against him, raking my nails uselessly over his flesh. “Your eyes, your hair, that mouth. Exquisite. And I must say, I’ve seen many a combination in my lifetime—”

  “Fuck you,” I seethed, choking out the insult. “Get off me.”

  His mouth stretched into a strained smile, his eyes mirthless, nowhere near as playful as he’d been yesterday. “You should be honored a god desires you above all others.”

  “I feel a lot of things,” I fired back, trembling in his grasp, “but definitely not honored, you sick bastard.”

  We stared off for a few dreadfully long beats of my heart, my soul on fire, before he tsked at me with three silky clucks of his tongue and a shake of his head. “Remember this, little human… You don’t deserve me, my time, or my affections, but circumstance makes it so.”

  As soon as he released me, I was off like a shot, blitzing toward the arched doorway with zero idea of where to go—but knowing I needed to get the fuck out of here.

  And as I scrambled down the steps, on the verge of tears yet again, I he
ard him crunch into my toast just as the kettle started to scream.

  7

  Nora

  Three days of hiding from and rebuffing Loki’s transparent advances later, I was still here.

  In a cage.

  Inside a mountain.

  No one had come for me.

  And that was just… wildly unacceptable.

  Other things too: depressing, crushing, devastating. You know, standard rock-bottom stuff.

  Three days later, it was finally time to do something about it. I could only explore the safe parts of the mountain’s inner workings for so long. At this point, I had ventured beyond the sapphire lake, taking a flashlight from one of the kitchen cabinets to map whatever else I could reach—mostly huge caverns and steep drops. A stream that seemed to link up with the waterfall. Moss. Not a critter in sight and very few bugs to contend with. Overall, beyond the initial made-up rooms, there was a whole lot of nothing in here. Dark corridors. Shadowy pits. The odd hole in the wall that was either too miniscule to squirm through or too high up to reach. One landing was both reachable and spacious enough to fit me, but the drop down the mountain’s face on the other side was substantial; there would be no surviving a fall like that.

  Finding a way out of this place seemed impossible—just like he’d said.

  But then again, Loki also thought a hole in the ground in a near-pitch-black room was an acceptable toilet—and he had supposedly been trapped in here for eight hundred years. His mood wavered, turning on a dime. So, the guy’s mental status was… questionable, at best.

  Still, he appeared to enjoy me, which was also, you know, great.

  Fan-fucking-tastic, really.

  Three days was about all I planned to take of this nightmare.

  As they had the last three nights, the lights dimmed just before bedtime. Loki floated his usual offer of sharing a bed. I flipped him off with my eyes. He disappeared. I sat waiting.