Somewhere, a line of tension releases. Loki knows this sensation; it's old enough and familiar enough that his reaction is instinctive, automatic. At this range there's a mere fraction of a second before the arrow reaches him, but that's enough. Enough for one pale, thin arm to shoot out and snatch the bolt from the air, the barest fraction of a centimeter from his face.

Yes. Oh yes, she has just made him angrier.

Now? Now he's not at all certain he really wants to let them escape.

He tosses the bolt aside with a bellow of rage, moving away from where it clatters on the pavement and towards the pair, as best he can sense them. They'll be easier to sues out once he has his hands on them. He still won't be able to see them, their faces, but perhaps he can memorise them in other ways while he decides what to break.

After their legs, of course. Can't have them getting away.

Perhaps he should've kept the crossbow bolt. Returned it to her, buried it in some tender and fleshy part with his bare hands.

Perhaps he should make them play a game. Kill the other and I'll spare you. Though he won't, of course.

Perhaps he should flay them alive.

Perhaps, but why?

Why play this like he's expected to?

His step slows, but doesn't stop. "Run," he commands, voice a growl. "Both of you should run. Now."