He stares down at me, a gently smile playing on his lips as he removes his hand from my chin. He raises his arm for me to take before we begin to walk.

His face is almost familiar, but I can't place where I've seen it.

He's tall, very tall, towering over me so much that I have to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. His sharp features contrast with the soft blue of his eyes, creating the feeling of a strong protector but a gentle lover.
Whomever becomes his lover will be very lucky.

He guides me to a beautiful looking building in the noblemen's village.

Why am I even here?
He's a Noble.
I shouldn't be here.

My feet halt as we near the front doors. The abrupt notion cause me to tug on Thomas's arm.

He looks to me.

"What is it?" He asks, his brows furrowing.

"I'm not a Noble," I say in hushed tones, "I don't belong here."

"Hush now," he steps in front of me, and raises my eyes to his by my chin again, "you are in my company, your status means nothing when you are by my side, Darling."

My stomach flutters at the term. 

"Keep your chin high," he removes his hand, "if you act and believe as though you belong, people will believe it too. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," I nod slightly.

I watch his jaw clench briefly before holding his arm out for me to take again. I do so and we enter the fancy building.

The lights are dim and a string quartet plays somewhere within. Couples and groups sit at cloth covered tables covered in food and different drinks as they laugh and talk with one another.

"Hello sir," the woman at the greeting stand smiles at us, "table for two?"

"Yes please," he smiles back at her as I look around the room again.

Everyone is in fancy evening wear. Suits and ties, dresses and pearls or diamonds.

I'm far too underdressed to be here.

Thomas must have sensed my nerves because he clasps his large had over my small one, making me look at him.

"Chin high," he mouths, giving my hand a slight squeeze.

I nod and stand a bit straighter as I grip his arm.

The woman asks us to follow her as she leads us to a small table near one of the large windows.

"What can I get you to drink?" The woman asks as we take our seats.

"White wine, please," Thomas says quickly.

She turns to me.

"Oh um just water please," I look down a bit and mess with my fingers, picking at the calluses on my fingertips.

"Okay I'll be right back," she says before walking away.

"Darling."

I look across from me, finding Thomas already looking at me with a stern look.

"What did I say about that chin?"

"Keep it high," I raise my head back up.

"Good girl."

Again my stomach flutters.

I can feel my cheeks heat up a bit but I hold his gaze.

"How old are you, Darling?" He asks, leaning in on his elbows.

"Don't you know it rude to ask a lady her age?" I joke.

A smile graces his face again and I can't help but admire it.

"I suppose that's true," he tilts his head to the side a bit, allowing the dim lights to cast new shadows on his beautiful features.

This man is utterly godly.

"Why did you ask me to accompany you?" I ask, almost in a breath rather than words.

"Am I not allowed to thank the woman who performed for my entertainment?" His head tilts the other way.

The waitress returns with our drinks, setting them down in front of us before asking what we want to eat.

Thomas ordered the same thing for us both once he looked at me and realized I had no clue what to get.

"So am I not allowed to treat you to a meal?" He asks once the woman leaves.

"I guess you can," my gaze finds the table.

"Darling," his voice is low, almost warning and I quickly raise my head and eyes again.

"I'm sorry."

"Why do you do that?" He asks.

"Because I was taught that it's what I'm supposed to do when I'm speaking to people of higher status," I mess with my calluses again, but will my eyes to stay on his, "and holding someone's gaze is daunting."

He chuckles and this time he is the one to lower his gaze.

"I suppose it can be a daunting tasks," his eyes come back to mine, "but if you must look away, don't let it be because of that soul reason. Let it be because of amusement or when you are in thought or something other than fear."

His eyes shine as he speaks, enthusiasm swirling within them.

"Does that make sense?" He leans in closer.

I nod.

"Words, Darling. Nothing can be set in stone of understanding or agreement if words go unspoken."

"Yes, it makes sense."

He smiles.

"Good," he sips his wine, "so how long have you been playing with the orchestra?"

"Three years now," I take a sip of my water.

"So that would make you nineteen," he says with a grin.

My jaw drops a bit.

"Oh you cheeky bastard," I look out the window with a smile as he chuckles.

He knows all jobs are assigned at sixteen. Asking how long I've been play was just a way for him to figure out my age.

"I find out what I want to however I must," he says, bring my gaze back to him in a mock scowl, which only makes him chuckle more, "oh don't be like that."

"How old are you then?" I ask, finger playing at the rim of my cup.

"A few years older," he says licking his lips before raising his glass to them.

"And how many is a few?" I raise a brow with a smirk.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he chuckles.

"So you get to know how old I am but I don't get to know how old you are?" I question teasingly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her fingers play with the edge of her glass as she gazes at me with a querked brow.

I can't exactly tell her that I'm fifteen hundred years old, and the equivalent in Midgardian years is just as bad.

"Alright," I concede, "I'm fourty, Darling."

I watch the blush creep on her cheeks again, but she seems unphased by the Midgardian equivalent.

Why did I even tell her?
Why did I let my resolve go in that?

She hums a quick but curious tone.

"What?"

"You don't look fourty," she shrugs, just as our food arrives.

We quickly thank the waitress and she leaves, allowing us our small bit of privacy back.

One of the ringlets on Lilith's head dangles in front of her face as she takes a bite of the pasta. I am tempted to reach and tuck it back behind her ear, not wanting her face obscured from my view.

Thankfully, she tucks it back herself, allowing me to once again see her face.

What is wrong with me?

I need my heir and for that I need my mate.
Why am I wasting my time with this woman?

I'm snapped out of my thoughts as a small sound, almost a moan, comes from her.

Her eyes are closed as she savors the flavor of the food.

Another smile pulls at my lips. She is the only creature that has managed to pull a real, genuine from me, not once, but consistently, in the last five hundred years I've been on Midgard.

Why?

Her eyes flutter open as she lets out a nervous laugh.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly, "I've just never tasted something so good before."

"It's quite alright, Love," why do I keep using pet names?

Her cheeks flash red.

Right. That's why.

Norse, what's wrong with me?

"So do you enjoy your occupation?" I ask, collecting some of the pasta on my fork so I may take a bite.

"Yes, I love it," her eyes shine with excited, "my mother always thought I would be assigned a musician like her with how I was always fascinated by watching her play."

"I suppose she taught you then?"

"No actually," her entire figure seems to well up with pride, "I taught myself. I taught myself to play all of the instruments that were on stage tonight," her pride faulters, "although I probably would have been punished if caught."

Punished for teaching herself to play?

I made no law against sharpening anyone's skills.

"Why would you have been punished?"

"The guards," her tone is quiet,  "they never allow anyone to learn a skill before they are assigned. They've killed children for it."

They've killed children?

Her head lowers as she pushes the food on her plate with the fork.

"I guess you're going to tell King Loki now aren't you?"

"You believe that to be his orders?" My food is all but forgotten.

"Why else would they do it?" Her eyes remain on her plate.

"I've been told the guards often do thinks of their own accord or pleasure," I would never order children to be killed.

"But they would be punished for that," her eyes finally meet mine again, "wouldn't they?"

"Only if the king were made aware of it."

"I wish he was made aware," she grumbles, looking back down at her food.

"Would you make him aware?"

Her eyes are wide as she looks back up.

"No," she shakes her head, "I couldn't."

"Are you afraid of him?" Norse, please don't be.

"No. It would just be inappropriate for someone like me.to speak before him," she sets her shoulders back, pride setting in again.

Good girl.

"My grandfather told me stories from his great grandfather. Stories about when King Loki took over," she continues, "he stopped our world from tearing itself apart, he made it so we could continue to grow food in the winter so there was always plenty of food, he even let the survivors of those who fought against him, including my great great great grandfather, live. Sure the punishments for breaking the laws can be harsh, but sometimes a firm hand is needed to set examples for the greater good."

I'm at a loss for words.
Wait.
He fought against me?

"Who was you great great grandfather?"

She shrinks in on herself again.

"I shouldn't have said that," her gaze shoots to her plate again.

I reach my hand across the table, gently grabbing her wrist. Her eyes come back to me.

"Please, I would like to know," I say as softly as I can.

"Why?" Her eyes hold accusation.

"Curious to a fault I'm afraid."

She looks around before looking back at me.

"A man named Clint Barton," she tone is quiet again.

Barton?
She looks nothing like him.
Then again it has been six generations.

She pulls her wrist from my hand and I notice that she pulls her sleeve further down.

"You have a number," I state looking at her arm.

The tugs at her sleeve more and hides her arm beneath the table.

"Might I see it?"
Perhaps this interaction isn't all for not.

"No."

There's fear in her reply.

"Why not?" I am not accustomed to being denied.

"I do not with you to think any less of me," her eyes stare into mine as if trying to will me to forget my request.

"I have one," I push up my sleeve just enough for her to see the silver number.

"Your mate must be a very kind person," she graces me with a small smile.

"Or they have someone else to the.killing for them," I reply without thinking.

"Oh," he smile drops, "I suppose you're right."

"Now," I pull my sleeve back down, "might I see yours."

"I'm sorry, but," she gazes at the table, nerves clearly taking though her whole being, "I cannot show you."

"Is it a large number?"
I dearly hope so.

"Yes," she breathes still not looking at me.

Damn it girl, quit looking away from me.

"How large?"

"A - a few hundred."

I can sense her lie but I don't want to press on much further, she looks as though she might cry.

"Are you ashamed of it?"

"No," she shakes her head, "I'm afraid I will be a disappointment to my mate."

"A disappointment?"
How could she be a disappointment?

"They've killed so many," she hesitates, "yet I could never even think of harming another person, let alone killing one."

"You've never killed?"

"No," her eyes finally find mine again.

She's a perfect zero.

A flawless silver lining in a world where most will kill for a scrap of food.

A perfect, silver zero.