Page 23 of Last Thrall of Asgard

He laughed. “It seems Loki chose his emissary well.”

“I think maybe Heimdall chose me.”

“Even better, I’d say, but also, Loki does not take advice lightly.” Freyr allowed me some time to lie and recover—and to mull that over—but eventually, he asked, “Can you move?”

“Somewhat.” I tested with a slight shift.

“Good. Let’s clean you properly.” Freyr leapt to his feet and then hoisted me to mine before I had the chance to protest.

I hissed, but there was no real pain, only an ache and his remaining seed dripping down between my thighs.

Freyr helped me to the railing, braced me against it so I no longer needed his arm about my waist, and climbed onto the railing to dive into the water.

“Freyr!” I called after him. I stared in awe until he resurfaced and yelled up at me.

“You won’t drown! Join me!”

“Are you mad? Movement aside, I can barely stand!”

“So? Swim!” He glided backward through the water, as beautiful with his auburn hair plastered against him as he was dry.

Perhaps all the gods were mad, but a dip in that water would feel amazing to cool my heated skin and cleanse me of sweat and come. “Are you going to ask Ravnur for a stroll?”

“Is that yourstipulationfor joining me?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes,” Freyr answered softly.

Getting up onto the railing made me groan and grit my teeth, but I made it, readied myself, and jumped.

As soon as I hit the water, everything went dark.

Such comfort. Such warmth. Such a wondrous pillow beneath me, soft fabrics encasing taut thighs. They felt firm and yet relaxing to doze upon, something I had only ever known in the dimmest memories of my mother’s embrace. But this was different, and clearly different thighs, for these were in trousers, and the fingers combing through my hair, untied and unbraided, yet somehow dry, though I would swear it should be wet, had curiously pointed nails.

My eyes sprang open, and there was no doubt whose lap my head was in when I saw the greens and sunset colors of his clothing.

“Hush now,” Loki said, raking his nails along my scalp, which felt… possessive in a way but still pleasant. “That pert young ass needs a rest, I think. I’d have saved Freyr for the end, but you’re the farm boy who waxed poetically about nature.”

The imp. I found myself settling in more contentedly upon Loki’s thighs, trying to catalog his smell, like a lush wood after a rainstorm. “My ass does indeed need a rest, thank you, but my belly needs food and ale. I don’t suppose thetrickstergod can manage that?”

“You call me trickster again?” Loki leaned over me, and I peered up at his pretty face, framed by fiery hair.

Orhalfhis face. One side was still in shadow.

Always in shadow.

“Loki—”

“I haven’t tricked you at all!”

“Um, yet.”

He sucked his teeth and patted my head with a thwap. “Such little faith! Food and ale it is then, while the farm boy’s ass recovers.” He vanished, right out from beneath me, and my head fell upon the cushions of a bench.

I sat up, taking in my surroundings. It seemed to be a small home, similar in style to Heimdall’s, but I could see no stairs to a second-floor bedroom. No door either. No way out of this room at all, with its bench, small table, and nearby kitchen.

Loki didn’t have a hall of his own in Asgard. No stories mentioned one. He was like a specter, haunting the homes of the other gods with his pranks and revelry.

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