He watched her, gaze heated with purpose. This mortal woman had put a spell on him. He was destined for greatness, not this hellhole. His birthright was the stars, no less. He was Loki of Asgard and she was nothing.
His eyes followed her, as she put food items in the cart. Insignificant wench, how could he care for her, how could he find such mundane doings even vaguely interesting?
He wanted to savour the texture of her skin, wanted to bury his face in her hair, wanted to drown in her beautiful eyes.
His weakness, his disease.
His salvation?