Thomas was stil outside, so I knocked once and opened the door without waiting for a response. Loki was in the middle of changing clothes as I came in. He’d already traded his worn slacks for a pair of pajama pants, and he was holding a white tee shirt, preparing to put it on.

He had his back to me, and it was even worse than I’d thought.

“Oh my god, Loki,” I gasped.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” He turned around to face me, smirking. “Shal I leave the shirt off then?”

“No, put the shirt on,” I said, and I closed the door behind me, so nobody could see or overhear us talking.

“You’re no fun.” He wrinkled his nose and puled the shirt over his head.

“Your back is horrific,” I said.

“And I was just going to tel you how beautiful you look today, but I’m not going to bother now if you’re going to talk that way.” Loki sat back down on his bed, more lying than sitting.

“I’m being serious. What happened to you?”

“I already told you.” He stared down at his legs and picked at lint on his pants. “The King hates me.”

“Why?” I asked, already feeling indignation at my father for doing this to him. “Why in god’s name would he do something so brutal to you?”

“You clearly don’t know your father,” Loki said. “This isn’t that brutal for him.”

“How is it not brutal?” I sat down on the bed next to him. “And you’re nearly a Prince! How can he treat you this way?”

“He’s the King,” he shrugged. “He does what he wants.”

“But what about the Queen?” I asked. “Didn’t she try to stop him?”

“She tried to heal me at first, but eventualy that became too much for her. And there’s only so much Sara can do to counter Oren.”

Sara, the Queen of the Vittra, was my stepmother, but she’d once been betrothed to Loki. She was over ten years older than him, and it was an arranged engagement that ended when he was nine.

They were never romantic, and she had always considered Loki more of a little brother and protected him as such.

“Did he personaly do that to you?” I asked quietly.

“What?” Loki looked up at me, his golden eyes meeting mine.

He had a scar on his chin, and I’m certain he didn’t have that before. His skin had been flawless and perfect, not that the scar detracted in any way from how handsome he was.

“That.” I touched the mark on his chin. “Did he do that to you?”

“Yes,” he answered thickly.

“How?” I moved my hand, touched a mark he had on his temple. “How did he do this to you?”