Free Web NovelChapter 120: Chapter 120
"Are you coming inside, or do you plan to continue darkening the entryway with your presence?" Circe asked dryly when she noticed Ragnar lingering by the room’s threshold.
She sat in front of the vanity, her expression pinched in frustration as she tried and failed to wrangle her thick mane of hair into something that even remotely resembled a neat updo. She was on her third attempt now, and her patience, fickle as it usually was on the best of days, was already wearing thin. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com
That was why she had long since resorted to wearing her hair down since she came here. Not because she particularly preferred that style, but because it was the only one she could actually manage without wanting to rip her hair out.
Her hair was long, impossibly thick, and heavy enough to make her neck ache if left bound too tightly. Back home, it had always taken at least two skilled maids to style it properly, three if she was preparing for an event.
They knew how to twist, braid, and weave it into the elegant styles befitting someone of her station. Now, every time she attempted to replicate those old hairstyles, the results were nothing short of disastrous. Each failure left her more irritated than the last.
"You should call one of the maids to help you," Ragnar suggested after watching her for a while, amusement glinting faintly in his eyes as she battled a stubborn tendril that refused to stay in place.
Circe hummed noncommittally in response, the sound vague enough to be mistaken for agreement.
There was a reason she hadn’t called for help. She might have been in a different kingdom and under very different circumstances now, but habits ingrained by years of caution didn’t fade easily.
Back home, she had handpicked the few maids allowed to attend to her personal needs, women she trusted implicitly. They were the only ones permitted near her bedchamber. They prepared her baths, dressed her, and helped her prepare for royal engagements. Everyone else, no matter their station, was kept at a distance.
Although it wasn’t without cause.
She had too many enemies within her father’s council, too many people who would have relished the chance to harm her for political gain. After a lifetime spent heeding to so many precautions, she had learned to be careful. Perhaps even too careful.
So no, she wasn’t ready to let any stranger tend to her personal needs. Nieah had been the only exception and that was because of the fever.
Some would call that stubbornness. Others, given her current predicament, might call it foolishness.
With a sharp huff, Circe released the fistful of hair she had been gripping, letting the tangled strands tumble freely down her back.
Then she felt him behind her.
Ragnar’s reflection appeared in the mirror as he stepped closer, and her body went perfectly still. Without a word, he reached out, gathering her hair into one large hand. His fingers grazed the back of her neck as he worked, sending an involuntary shiver up her spine.
That was enough to snap her out of her trance.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, twisting around to glare at him, or at least, she attempted to.
He was fond of touching her. That much had become apparent. There was something unguarded, almost reckless, in the way he did it too—light, familiar, and casual. It was a kind of tenderness she wasn’t accustomed to, and that unfamiliarity was what unnerved her most.
But with him, it felt strange. Dangerous, even.
Ragnar didn’t answer immediately. When she tried to turn again, he placed a firm hand on her head and guided her to face the mirror. His touch was gentle, yet commanding enough to make her obey without thinking. Only the lower half of his face and the breadth of his shoulders were visible in the mirror.
"I’m helping you with your hair," he said simply, the faintest hint of humor threading through his voice. "Because we both know that hum you gave me means you’re going to do the exact opposite of what I said."
He sounded amused, and Circe could tell he was fighting back laughter. That only made her lips press into a thin line. Still, she didn’t move.
Since she wasn’t allowed to turn and glare at him directly, she settled for shooting sharp looks at his reflection instead, hoping they stung all the same.
Her shoulders, tense from all the effort she had spent, began to relax under his touch.
"Do you even know how to style a woman’s hair?" she asked skeptically as he picked up a comb and began brushing through the ends of her hair, slowly working his way up with surprising care.
"Have a little faith in me, princess," he replied, his tone infuriatingly self-assured.
"You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?" she shot back, narrowing her eyes at his reflection.
She wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t. Why would a warlord know anything about women’s hair?
This time Ragnar laughed, a deep, husky sound that seeped into her chest and spread down to her toes.
"Not a clue," Ragnar admitted, still smiling. He had seen her struggling earlier and thought to himself, how hard could it be? After all, if he could lead men into battle and return alive, surely this couldn’t be more difficult.
But in truth, the gesture had little to do with her hair and everything to do with her. Since returning home two days ago, he had found himself craving her nearness more than was reasonable. The need to touch her, even in the smallest, most innocent way, was becoming a quiet sort of madness.
"So, it’s the blind leading the blind," Circe muttered dryly.
Instead of replying, Ragnar changed the subject.
"Why don’t you ever let the maids help you get dressed?"
She stilled slightly at the question. He had clearly noticed more than she thought.
Her first instinct was to ignore him, but as his fingers moved deftly through her hair, she found herself answering anyway.
"I was very paranoid growing up," she said softly. "Partly because of how I was raised, but also because of the threats my family constantly faced. It made me cautious about everyone and everything. Even the people I allowed close to me." She paused, then added, "It didn’t help that half of your staff regarded me warily when I first arrived, like my presence unsettled them. You can’t honestly say they were thrilled to have me here."
A muscle in Ragnar’s jaw ticked. "I should have had a word with all of them beforehand."
Circe waved a dismissive hand. "No need. I get by just fine."
He didn’t respond, but his expression in the mirror suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced.
After a few quiet minutes, Ragnar somehow managed to wrangle her hair into a loose bun with two twisted strands framing her face. It wasn’t perfect, but it was neat.
He did a decent enough job for someone who had so little experience.
"I want you to join me for dinner tonight," he said, as he inspected his work. "Two of my father’s dignitaries will be there."
Circe tilted her head. "So all this was just a bribe to make me accompany you?" freёwebnoѵel.com
The corner of his mouth curved upward. "Not in the way you think," he said smoothly. "You can think of it as you escorting me to a social event."
That meant she would be getting paid for her time.
She arched a single brow. "Then I expect payment upfront and in full."
Moments later, the sound of clinking silverware filled the dining hall, echoing faintly around them. The table stretched long enough to fit a dozen guests, yet only four seats were occupied.
Circe sat to Ragnar’s left, posture straight and expression neutral. Across from her were two Lamorian dignitaries, stern faced, calculating men who seemed to communicate more through glances than words.
Combined, they had spoken no more than nine words to her since their arrival at the estate earlier that day.
When they first rode into the estate, they had been ushered directly into Ragnar’s study and remained there for over an hour before emerging for dinner.
Now, as one of them launched into a dull recounting of a recent hunting expedition, Ragnar sat at the head of the table, nodding politely but clearly bored out of his mind. His eyes flickered once toward Circe, and she caught the faintest twitch of longing in them before he masked it behind another drink of wine.
The faint bruising on his cheek, the only remnant of his fight with Hairan, was stark under the flicker of candlelight whenever he turned his head.
The dignitaries had each glanced at it several times, though neither had the courage or audacity to mention it aloud even though the both of them must have already known what happened to cause him that bruise.
Beside her, Ragnar was almost a completely different person from the man that had helped style her hair a while ago. His face was now grim and lined with tension, and his posture was rigid. Gone was the smiling man from earlier.
Circe noticed, of course she did. Especially when the shift happened so quickly.
