Claimed by the vampire prince

Chapter 127: Chapter 127

"Are you looking for anything, Your Highness?"

The voice came from behind her, sharp and unexpected, slicing through the silence of the hall. Circe jumped, her pulse leaping to her throat.

Startled, she spun around, skirts brushing against her legs as she searched for the intruder who had managed to creep up on her unnoticed. Her heart sank when she saw who it was.

Casilo stood just a few feet away, his arms folded neatly over his chest, his stance composed but his gaze unwavering.

His usually expressive eyes were now unreadable. He was clearly assessing her, trying to piece together all the possible reasons why she might be wandering through this particular wing of the manor alone.

And Circe was certain that whatever conclusions he was drawing, none of them were in her favor. Not with her reputation. Not with her history of violence and impulsive temper.

She quickly scrambled for an excuse, her mind racing. She could tell him she had simply lost her way, that she’d taken a wrong turn while exploring. It was plausible enough, the manor was vast, a labyrinth of halls and staircases that had taken her a while to memorize.

But as the words reached her lips, she stopped herself.

The look in Casilo’s eyes told her that he would see through it immediately. He was not some inattentive maid or an ordinary guard she could easily deceive.

If anything, she had been hoping it would be each one of the two who followed her, someone she could feed a simple lie to without consequence and who wouldn’t question why she was heading toward the armory at the end of the hall.

But Casilo was a different story entirely.

He wasn’t just one of Ragnar’s staff, he was Ragnar’s right hand, his most trusted confidant, and more importantly, his brother in arms. The kind of man who had earned both Ragnar’s loyalty and the deep respect of everyone in the manor.

And that made him much harder to bypass.

Circe, for her part, still hadn’t figured out how to regard him.

"I wanted to borrow a bow," she said finally, deciding that half-truths would serve her better than outright lies. "I thought I would get back into archery. It’s been quite a while since I gave up on it."

She added, perhaps a little too quickly, "Don’t worry, Ragnar knows about it."

Ragnar most certainly did not know about it, and the flicker of doubt in Casilo’s expression made it clear that he suspected as much. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer before he spoke again.

"You’re supposed to be in your bedchamber," he said evenly, choosing not to call her out on her obvious lie.

Of course he would say that.

After the recent attempt on her life, Ragnar had reverted to his maddeningly overbearing habits, smothering her with caution as if she might break at the slightest touch.

He’d been the same after she nearly drowned, but this time his behavior had grown far worse. He had become relentless, assigning guards to shadow her even within the manor walls, refusing to let her so much as take a walk unaccompanied.

It had become suffocating.

So much so that Circe had resorted to locking herself inside their shared room just to avoid him. It was a shame that she and Ragnar shared the same room.

She straightened her posture now, tilting her chin upward, feigning haughtiness.

"Am I not allowed to go where I please within the estate?" she asked, her tone laced with forced imperiousness. "Has Ragnar suddenly changed his mind on that front?"

She tried to sound haughty, like the spoiled royal everyone back home assumed her to be, but the act faltered.

Her heart wasn’t in it, and even if it had been, she doubted it would have worked on Casilo.

"He hasn’t," Casilo replied smoothly. "You are completely free to roam wherever you wish." His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "Though I’m certain he wouldn’t be pleased to hear that you were heading to his armory. Unauthorized."

He gave her a pointed look that made it abundantly clear that he didn’t believe a word she’d said, and he wasn’t about to let her near the armory under any pretense.

Circe bristled, the muscles in her jaw tightening. "Well," she snapped, "it’s a good thing I don’t go about my day trying to please him."

The words came out sharper than she intended. fгeewebnovёl.com

His expression remained the same. "It would be best if you went to him and asked for yourself," Casilo said flatly.

By the tone of his voice, Circe could tell that he didn’t believe she would actually do it. Either that, or he was certain Ragnar would flatly refuse to entertain her question. Now that she thought about it, both possibilities felt equally likely.

"Fine!" she replied, forcing a bright, brittle smile as she spun on her heel and started back the way she came.

As her footsteps echoed faintly against the marble floor, her mind began to race. What exactly was she planning to say to Ragnar? How could she possibly explain herself without sounding foolish or worse, suspicious?

The truth was, she hadn’t been honest with Casilo when she explained why she was heading to the armory. She did intend to borrow a bow and a quiver of arrows, yes, but not for herself.

Rowen was almost nine now, the same age she had been when their mother first placed a bow in her small hands and taught her how to steady her breath before shooting an arrow. The memory of that day had been replaying in Circe’s mind for two weeks straight. It refused to fade.

And she knew it wouldn’t, not until she passed that same experience on to her brother.

Their mother was gone. And if Circe didn’t teach him, no one would. No one else in this estate knew what those lessons meant, the quiet joy of it, the love hidden in every correction, every nod of encouragement.

She had made a promise as a sixteen-year-old girl with her infant brother pressed to her chest, watching their mother getting cremated.

She had sworn through her tears that Rowen would still have every piece of happiness their mother once gave her. That he would grow up knowing the same simple, beautiful things even if it meant Circe had to recreate them all by herself.

Now, as she passed from the quiet, shadowed hallways into the livelier parts of the manor, she caught sight of Casilo still following her from a short distance.

Of course he was.

Her jaw tightened.

And, as if fate decided she hadn’t suffered enough, Nieah appeared from the side, falling neatly into step beside her.

Circe sighed under her breath. "My gods," she muttered. "Every day, I come a little closer to losing my mind."

"Good morning, Your Highness," Nieah greeted warmly, offering a polite bow.

Circe mustered a smile, though it took a large effort.

It wasn’t Nieah’s fault that Circe was in a bad mood, after all. The fault, as always, lay squarely on the shoulders of the overbearing prince Circe had been forced to marry.

"I trust you slept well, Nieah." Circe asked, keeping her tone light.

"Yes, Your Highness," Nieah said, her smile shy but genuine. "I slept well."

Circe nodded thoughtfully before pausing, turning to face her companion. "Do you know where Ragnar is?"

It struck her suddenly that she’d set off to find him without even knowing his whereabouts or whether he was even in the estate at all. She hadn’t seen him since she woke, nor had she heard anyone mention him that morning.

"The last time I saw him he was in the courtyard with Kostia." Nieah said.

"Thank you," Circe said. Her gaze flicked over her shoulder to where Casilo still lingered, " I don’t need two people following after me. Nieah is enough."

Casilo didn’t so much as blink. The set of his jaw made it painfully clear that he had no intention of listening to her. Circe’s eyes narrowed, but she refused to waste her breath arguing.

With a frustrated huff, she turned and continued on her way, gently tugging Nieah along beside her.

When she reached the courtyard, the sight that greeted her stopped her cold.

Ragnar was shirtless.

The morning sun struck his skin like liquid gold, glinting off the thin sheen of sweat that glistened across his chest and shoulders. He stood in the center of the courtyard, sword in hand, speaking quietly with Kostia. From the way his stance shifted and the slight rise of his chest as he caught his breath, Circe guessed he had been sparring before she arrived.

That explained his state of undress but it didn’t explain why she couldn’t seem to look away.

From this distance, she could make out the pale scars etched across his skin, faint white lines that crisscrossed over the solid ridges of muscle.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen shirtless men before. She’d spent years training with her father’s army, surrounded by men who were just as disciplined, and just as strong. Yet somehow, none of them had ever made her pause.

And that made no sense at all.

Because this was Ragnar—infuriating, overbearing, impossible Ragnar.

And yet, here she was, rooted to the ground, utterly and inexplicably surprised by what she was seeing