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Summary
It takes Thor a moment too long to recognise the woman before him, the one who has marched into his bedchambers without so much as a care for his state of half-dress. Thor has never been one for modesty, and so he doesn’t falter in his nudity, merely casts his gaze in the woman’s direction. She looks impatient and stern, arms folded beneath an ample bosom, curls of coal black hair framing a sharp face. Quite lovely, Thor thinks, save for the irritation that hardens her pretty face. “My Lady,” he begins, and is met then with a derisive snort.
“Please. Do us both a favour and spare me your false courtesies, Thor. Surely you are not so dense as to not recognise your own brother.”