Free Web NovelChapter 122: Chapter 122
Ragnar watched her for a long time, his heart uncomfortably full. She looked different like this, unguarded and soft. Like a painting come to life, all light strokes and soft edges.
He brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek that had come loose from her bun, his voice a low murmur meant only for the dark.
"You’re going to be the death of me, Circe."
And for once, he wasn’t entirely sure he minded.
Ragnar lingered in the quiet room long after Circe had drifted into sleep. The soft glow of the lamp bathed her features in golden light, casting delicate shadows that softened the sharp lines so often etched into her face when she was awake.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no edge to her expression, no veil of suspicion drawn across her eyes, no tension coiled in her jaw, only the unguarded serenity of slumber.
A faint smile curved her lips as she slept, the kind that vanished too quickly in the daylight, especially when she was around him.
He could still smell the faint trace of wine that clung to her. It was honeyed, cloying, and deceptively sweet, the unmistakable scent of fae wine. The thought made his chest constrict harshly.
Someone in his household had deliberately put Circe in danger, and that thought burned like acid through his veins.
Whoever it was must have been able to access the deepest parts of the manor’s wine cellars to the place where the fae wine was carefully stored.
Ragnar’s jaw tightened. This was the third time Circe had been intentionally targeted since they got married. And with every attempt on her life, the anger inside him grew darker, more poisonous, feeding a storm of guilt and self-loathing he found hard to contain.
Most days he just let the feeling fester until it began to eat him up from the inside.
Each failure cut into him like a knife. It made him feel incompetent that he hadn’t been able to anticipate any of the attacks and, as a result, had done nothing to prevent them. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm
What kind of husband was he if he couldn’t protect the person closest to him from harm? What did that say about him?
Circe’s hand had loosened around his sleeve but her fingers were still brushing lightly against his own even in sleep.
He hesitated, then carefully began to move her hand away so he could leave and attend to the matters that demanded his attention. But before he could rise, her voice broke the stillness.
"Don’t," she murmured softly, eyes still closed. "You can leave tomorrow."
Ragnar froze, caught between relief that she was all right and something far heavier.
"You are not going to remember this in the morning," he said quietly, almost to himself.
His thoughts drifted back to the brief exchange they shared earlier in the library. How, for once, she had let her walls down completely. How easy it had felt to exist beside her, to simply be in her presence without tension or guarded words. He could still hear her laughter from that moment, soft and melodic, tumbling from her lips like a secret she hadn’t meant to share. How she giggled as she joked at his expense.
It was a sound he wanted to hear again.
He realized that he longed for just that. The selfish part of him wanted it all with her. He wanted her, his wife.
He found himself yearning for that same closeness they shared tonight.
He wanted her sober and smiling at the sight of him, wanted her to see him as someone other than an enemy, as a man worthy of her affections.
He wanted her in ways he shouldn’t, maddening and all-consuming. He wanted her even when all she did was glare furiously at him, and it had begun back when they were still in the palace together while he recovered.
It probably started before that, if he was being completely honest with himself. His fascination with her had sprouted back when she was brought before him with Hakon’s blood spattered on her clothes and face.
Even then, there had been something about her that gripped him. The defiance, and strength he saw shining in her eyes.
Now, as he watched her sleep, he almost didn’t want to leave her side. But duty called. There were answers he needed, truths that couldn’t wait until morning.
He rose from the edge of the bed and quietly left the room. Aside from the patrolling guards, the corridors were empty. Moonlight poured through the tall arched windows, spilling across the polished floors.
His footsteps echoed steadily through the silent hall as he made his way toward the servants’ quarters.
He stopped in front of Nieah’s room and knocked once. The door opened almost immediately, as though she had been waiting for him.
"Is something wrong, Your Highness?" Nieah asked, her voice hesitant when she caught sight of Ragnar’s grave expression. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com
Ragnar’s tone was calm, the type of calm that hinted at something far more dangerous lurking beneath the surface.
"I want you to check the wine cellars," he said, each word deliberate and clipped. "Inspect every cask of fae wine and take note of those that were recently opened."
"Yes, Your Highness," Nieah replied quickly, bowing her head.
Ragnar’s gaze hardened. "Before that, I need you to assemble everyone involved in serving tonight’s dinner. Every kitchen hand, every servant, anyone who so much as touched the food or wine. I want them in my study. Now."
Nieah’s eyes widened, her face paling slightly. "Of course, your highness." She bowed deeply and hurried off, the urgency in her steps betraying her unease.
It didn’t take long for the staff to gather. They stood in two neat rows before Ragnar’s desk, eyes downcast, hands twisting nervously at their aprons.
The air in the room was thick with tension. The only sound that could be heard was the slide of shoes against the marble floor as they shuffled nervously, anxiously waiting for Ragnar to address them.
They knew the prince and that he had never summoned so many of them like this at once, which meant that whatever had provoked it had to be serious.
Ragnar stood behind his desk, his gaze sweeping over them, harsh and cutting.
"Which one of you was responsible for serving the wine?" His voice sliced through the silence like a blade.
Murmurs rippled through the group, a flurry of uncertain glances exchanged before a maid finally stepped forward, wringing her hands. "That would be Maya, Your Highness. She was assigned to serve the wine to your guests tonight."
Only that Maya hadn’t ended up serving the guests, she had served Circe instead.
Ragnar’s eyes narrowed. "Then where is she?"
No one answered. The silence stretched.
A dark feeling swirled in the pit of his stomach.
"Find her," he ordered, his tone sharp as steel. "Search the grounds, the servants’ quarters, everywhere. Bring her to me at once."
The group scattered instantly, spurred on by the quiet fury in his voice. Ragnar remained where he was, braced against the desk, his mind churning.
Whoever had slipped fae wine into Circe’s cup had either been disastrously careless or deliberately malicious. And if it was the latter, then this wasn’t an accident but it was an attack.
Were his staff incompetent enough to accidentally serve a human fae wine, or was something else at play?
Was there something important he hadn’t noticed yet?
Minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. A young male servant appeared in the doorway, pale-faced and shaken.
"Your Highness," he stammered, struggling to catch his breath. "We found her."
Ragnar straightened slowly. "And?"
The boy swallowed hard, eyes darting to the floor. "In the garden, Your Highness. She’s... she’s dead."
The words hung heavy in the air. Ragnar’s expression darkened, a cold fire kindling in his gaze.
"Show me," he said.
Ragnar followed quietly as the servant led him past the courtyard, their combined footsteps loud in the silent night. Sensing the urgency of the situation, a few guards left their posts to trail after Ragnar.
News about what had happened must have already begun making the rounds among the staff.
They reached the garden, and there on the grass, hidden behind the wide hedges, lay Maya’s lifeless body. There was no blood or any sign of a serious injury that might have led to her death.
Her clothes were clean, her posture almost peaceful, her hands folded neatly over her stomach.
Anyone who saw her might have thought she was only sleeping, but Ragnar had seen a lot of dead bodies in his lifetime, and he knew almost instantly that the body had been there for quite a while.
He crouched down beside her, the faint scent of damp earth filling his lungs. That was when he saw the bruises encircling her neck, dark, unmistakable marks of strangulation.
