Hela sat at her desk, legs crossed, one hand supporting her chin, the other holding 'How to Win a Man Without Summoning an Army or Raising the Dead' between two fingers like it was an infectious scroll. Oh, and she had used her magic to bring some ladies special makeup set, dress and shoes from Asgard.
She had burned armies for less than the title alone.
And yet…
She flipped the page.
Chapter 4: "Soft Eyes, Not Soul-Devouring Eyes"
"Many powerful women have been told to 'smile more,' which is absolute garbage. However, if your 'natural resting face' makes civilians cry and children run, then there might be a middle ground between 'murder-glare' and 'please date me'."
"Step One: Practice in a mirror. Step Two: Try not to look like you're about to seduce someone and sentence them to death simultaneously."
Hela blinked.
She stared at the page.
Then at the mirror.
Then back to the page.
She slowly rose from her seat, long coat swirling around her as she approached her full-length mirror.
She planted herself in front of it, took a breath…
And tried a smile.
The mirror cracked instantly.
"…Too much."
She tried again.
This time, less teeth.
Her lips curled upward slightly. Her eyes narrowed instinctively into what she thought was a sultry glance, but actually looked more like she was planning your execution with light affection.
"…Still terrifying."
She sighed. Deeply. Her breath fogged the glass.
Then she flipped the page.
"Eye contact: Firm, not fatal. Tilt your head slightly. Blink slowly. You're not trying to hypnotize him. You're trying to seem interested, not like you're determining where to stab him if he says no."
"That's… oddly specific," Hela muttered.
She tried it. Slow blink. Tilted head. Gentle nod.
Looked like she was trying to seduce the mirror and decapitate it.
She groaned. "No wonder he kisses the redhead. She probably has three settings: charm, war, and guilt trip. I only have murder."
She paced.
Then flipped further ahead.
Chapter 7: "Flirting Without Threats"
"Saying things like 'I could ride you to your death' doesn't count as flirting."
She snorted. "Says who?"
"Try compliments that don't involve power comparisons. Instead of: 'I could eviscerate your enemies faster than your current girlfriend,' try: 'You make me feel calm… in a way I don't understand.'"
She reread that line.
Once.
Twice.
Then she closed the book and stared at the ceiling like it had personally offended her.
"Calm," she whispered. "I make him feel calm. He makes me feel like I'm being digested by butterflies."
A pause.
"Is this what mortals call... 'yearning?'"
Hela continued reading.
She was now deep into Chapter 9: "Dressing for Him Without Looking Like You're Trying to Seduce His Soul (Unless That's Your Thing)"
The subheading made her frown.
"Your partner may have preferences, both subtle and specific. If your man has god-tier taste, it's important to dress in a way that flatters your power and makes him think about cuddling instead of running for a shield."
Hela's eye twitched. Hard.
She read the next lines out loud, her voice flat as death.
"'What your man likes: comfortable, understated elegance, fabrics that suggest softness, not torture. What he dislikes: shoulder spikes that double as weapons, cloaks that slap people when you walk by, or accessories made of the souls of the damned.'"
She very, very slowly looked down at herself.
Black armor. Check.
Daggered shoulder guards. Check.
Spikes, cape, and boots that screamed "Funeral at 3, Massacre at 4"? Check, check, definitely check.
"...I am the soul of the damned."
She groaned and flipped the page again.
"Try a soft dress in a muted jewel tone. Think deep green velvet, not obsidian voidstorm. Consider a slit, not a war tear. Necklines: suggest, don't challenge. Bonus points for backless. Casual, comfortable, but like you might casually destroy a star if necessary."
Hela narrowed her eyes.
"I do like Asgardian velvet."
She kept reading.
"Perfume: something subtle. Earthy, warm. Not 'I bathed in the screams of the fallen' or 'this scent causes hallucinations.' Amber, vanilla, maybe a little smoke. Something that says mystery, not miasma."
Hela glanced at the bottle on her vanity, labeled Draugr Mist.
She picked it up. Spritzed it once. Watched the wallpaper peel.
"...Right. We'll shelf that one."
Next: Shoes.
"Man notices shoes. They won't admit it, but they do. Avoid stilettos that double as blade storage. Try something elegant. Heels that say 'I can stomp you,' but also 'I might want to dance later.' Bonus: he finds bare feet in moonlight oddly romantic. Probably trauma."
Hela looked down at her boots, which had stepped on at least six kings and a troll named Greg.
"I'm not wearing flats," she muttered.
Then: Hair.
"Messy buns are cute. Braids show effort. Wild and flowing makes him stare. Horns are optional unless real."
Her fingers twitched.
She snapped her fingers once.
Her crown receded with a reluctant pop. Her long, jet-black hair unspooled from its usual battle style, cascading down her back like liquid night. She glanced at the mirror.
Okay. Not bad. Still a little murder-y, but now with... shampoo commercial potential.
Then came the final note: Lip gloss.
"Use one. Just one. No venom, no blood. Something soft, maybe a muted wine or a sinful cherry. You want him to look and then forget how to function."
Hela's eyes narrowed as she stared at the rows of enchanted lip tinctures on her shelf.
One was labeled Witchblood.Another Final Kiss.One was Ragnarök Berry.
She stared.
Then dug into the very back of the drawer, where she found a dusty, barely-used vial labeled simply: 'Hela's First Lip Gloss: Crimson Whisper – Subtle.'
She uncapped it. Sniffed.
No hallucinations. No soul magic.
It smelled faintly of cherries and sin.
She blinked once. Then applied it carefully, watching herself in the mirror.
When she was done, she tilted her head. Blinked slowly. Just once.
And for the first time in centuries…
…her reflection didn't look like it wanted to stab itself.
"…Huh."
There was a knock at the door.
She jolted like she'd been caught trying on a human emotion.
"Who is it?!"
A pause.
Then Aron's voice. "It's me. I, uh… brought mango smoothie."
Hela looked out the window and noticed that it was already dark. She blinked and yanked the door open with far more force than necessary, nearly taking it off the hinges.
Aron stood there with one eyebrow raised and a smoothie cup extended in one hand like a peace offering. "I brought your favorite. Mango..."
The cup vanished from his hand faster than he could blink.
"Thank you," Hela said primly, already taking a long, slow sip with the exaggerated air of someone trying very hard not to seem like she'd been pacing for twenty minutes rehearsing how to look 'casual.'
Aron blinked, watching her down half the smoothie in one breath.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then tilted his head.
His eyes drifted upward.
Hair. Down. Long. Flowing. Like liquid night with just a hint of 'I used to strangle empires.'
His gaze flicked lower.
Lip gloss.
Lip gloss?
It was red.
Not blood red. Not death red.
No, this was a soft, dangerous red. The kind that said, "I'm trying really hard to look like I didn't spend three hours reading a book on how to flirt."
He blinked again.
"New look?" he asked, carefully. Neutral. Very neutral.
Hela took another sip and licked her lips just a bit too deliberately. "What, this? I just let my hair down. Do you like it?"
She tilted her head exactly like Chapter 4 suggested.
Slow blink. Tiny smirk. One leg slightly forward.
Aron's brain momentarily rebooted. There was a blue screen and everything.
He blinked. "It's… different."
"Different bad?" she asked, tone innocent, which was extra suspicious coming from someone who once reanimated an army for fun.
"No, no," he said quickly, stepping inside. "Different good. You look… softer."
She glared.
He held up both hands. "I didn't say 'weak.' I said soft. You know, like a silk-wrapped dagger. Still dangerous. Just with a little extra 'I'm secretly hot and may or may not own scented candles.'"
Hela narrowed her eyes. "I do own scented candles."
"Let me guess." He sniffed. "Dragon ash and... blood orange?"
"Vengeance Mist," she corrected smugly. "Limited edition. Only screams a little."
"Lovely." He sat on the nearest obsidian-cushioned bench, his gaze sweeping the room, pausing at the suspicious makeup palette on her desk.
He blinked.
She followed his gaze and stiffened slightly.
"Don't say a word."
He turned back to her, lips twitching. "Were you... Were you following a dating book?"
"I was studying, you walking hairstyle." She sipped her smoothie aggressively. "About mortal social conventions. To avoid appearing intimidating."
"Right," he said, nodding solemnly. "Because nothing says 'approachable' like sipping mango smoothie in full body armor and burning me with your eyes."
"I took off the crown," she pointed out.
He raised an eyebrow. "And left on the eyeliner sharp enough to cut a truck in half."
"Details."
They sat in silence for a moment, Hela sipping, Aron smirking.
Then he leaned forward.
"You know," he said, voice low and teasing, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to impress me."
She rolled her eyes so hard that the air temperature dropped. "Please. As if I need to impress you. I am the goddess of death. You refused back then, remember? You think I'll chase after you? Even though I promised to be your slave for five years, I still have my pride." S~eaʀᴄh the NovelZone.fun website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.
"And yet," he said, reaching out slowly, gently tugging a lock of her flowing hair, "you're wearing lip gloss that smells like cherries and not death."
She slapped his hand. "Hands off, mortal."
"You called me a god and immortal back then, remember?"
"Well, I was dehydrated and mildly concussed."
He grinned. "And when you said I have 'stupidly kissable eyes'?"
"I said piercing. Your auditory perception is flawed."
"So is your poker face."
Her eye twitched. "You're insufferable."
"And you're glowing," he said.
She blinked.
He was still grinning, but his eyes had softened, that rare sincerity slipping into his tone. "You look great, Hela. I mean it. Scary as ever, yeah... but there's something... new."
She blinked again, but slower this time.
It was totally Chapter 4-approved.
"Maybe you're finally seeing past the spikes," she said smoothly, finishing the last sip of her smoothie with a dramatic slurp.
"Maybe," he said, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other. "Or maybe you're just too lazy to murder me for noticing."
"Don't tempt me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They sat in silence again.
Hela glanced sideways.
Then, quietly: "I've read Chapter 12, you know."
His eyebrows shot up. "That's the one about 'accidental hand touching and shared desserts'?"
Her eyes gleamed. "No. 'Cuddling for Psychologically Complicated War Gods.'"
He choked on air.
"Chapter 13," she added, standing. "It's called 'Accidentally Sitting in His Lap During a Storm.'"
"That's oddly specific."
"It includes diagrams."
"You read diagrams?"
She smirked, walking toward him, slow and deliberate.
"You're in trouble, Aron."
He stood up, unable to stop the grin that spread across his face. "Oh, I know I'm in trouble."
She stopped just inches from him, looking up, her eyes locked onto his.
"Chapter 14?"
He swallowed. "Yeah?"
Her lips brushed his ear.
"Lighting candles with your abs."
Then she shoved the empty smoothie cup into his hand and sauntered off, hips swaying like a war crime in motion.
Aron stared after her, utterly, hopelessly dazed.
Then looked at the cup.
And muttered, "I don't know if I just got flirted with... or threatened with scented warfare."
And honestly?
He was kind of into it.
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