Free Web NovelChapter 48: Chapter 48
Ragnar’s hand wrapped around her wrist, hard even to bruise. His grip was as tight as shackles made of steel, biting into the tender skin of her wrist.
Circe’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to jerk free, but it was useless.
He pulled her sharply toward him, forcing her to look up at his face, into his eyes. There was a storm of agitation brewing in its depth. Something deeper that made her stomach twist, though she refused to let it show. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing fear or regret in her expression.
Her back brushed against the edge of the side table. The cool wood grounded her and sharpened her awareness. Her free hand slipped behind her, fingers darting across the table’s surface in a frantic search. She needed something. Anything she could possibly use as a weapon. She wouldn’t stand there and let him corner her like some helpless thing.
She thought of pulling out the dagger that was still strapped to her thigh but thought against it. The goal wasn’t to maim, it was to hurt him enough to teach him a lesson. But every second more he held her wrist made her crave the steady weight of the dagger in her hand.
There. Her fingers closed around a thick, leather-bound object.
A journal.
Not much, but it would do.
Without hesitation, she snatched it up and swung it in a sharp arc, aiming directly for the side of his head. If she hit him hard enough, he’d let go. He had to.
****
Ragnar moved quicker than she anticipated, stopping the journal mid-swing. He ripped it out of her grasp before it could strike him and flung it carelessly to the ground, the pages splaying open. Before she could so much as reach for another object to launch at him, his hand shot out again and swiftly captured her other wrist.
Circe let out an angry huff, a sound born from both fury and disbelief. She twisted in his hold, trying with all her strength to pull free, but he only tightened his grasp in response. His eyes were fixed on her, not with anger, but with something more complex. It was something layered and unreadable. He looked at her as one might regard a feral creature, dangerous, unpredictable, and yet oddly mesmerizing.
There was caution in his stance, yes, but beneath it lingered a raw, reluctant fascination. She both intrigued and fascinated him, much more than someone like her ever should. Right from the moment she knelt before him in her father’s throne room. Even now as she attacked him and struggled to escape him, all the while staring at him like he was the dirt beneath her shoe.
"Let go of me!" she snapped, her voice sharp with venom as she writhed against him.
But he didn’t.
She continued to fight, jerking and struggling, her breath growing ragged, until slowly her energy bled out of her limbs. Her shoulders sagged and her arms went slack. Defeat didn’t sit well with her, but she recognized how futile it was to continue fighting. For now at least.
Ragnar watched the change in her without loosening his grip.
"Now," he said softly, almost as if coaxing a frightened animal out of hiding, "would you like to tell me why you’re throwing things at my head?"
His voice was gentle. Too gentle. Circe didn’t trust it.
" I want my own sleeping quarters." She said, before glancing down at his fingers that were still wrapped firmly around her wrists. " And I want you to let go of me?"
" Why?" He asked.
" Because you’re hurting my wrists with your grip." Circe answered. Her tone made it abundantly clear that she thought he was an idiot for not grasping the obvious.
"No. That’s not what I meant," Ragnar said quietly, a note of frustration threading his voice. He loosened the pressure on her arm immediately, but he didn’t let go completely. His grip remained firm but gentler now, mindful not to hold her so tightly anymore.
He’d forgotten himself again. At times he was unaware of his own strength and tended to use it carelessly. He was a soldier and the people he went up against were usually armed and equally well trained and battle hardened. Men who knew how to hit back, who wore steel and scars and expected to bleed.
She was not one of them. Ragnar had to remind himself that Circe, stubborn as she acted, was still human, a woman. A sharp-tongued, defiant, maddening woman but a woman regardless, which made her more fragile, even though she behaved the exact opposite.
"Why are you so desperate to have your own chambers?" he asked, genuinely perplexed.
They had spent entire days in the same room back in the palace. Trapped together with nothing but tension, stubborn silences, and the occasional biting remark and not once had she brought up the issue of space. She tolerated his presence then. Why not now?
Circe pulled herself upright with a sharp exhale, her expression turning incredulous, as though the question alone was too foolish to entertain.
"Why would I want to share a room with you?" she shot back, venom curling around her words like a whip. She looked affronted, like his nearness offended her
Ragnar’s brows lowered, his mouth twitching into a scowl. What was so offensive about sharing a room with him? Did she think him an unbearable company? Or was it the simple fact that she wanted to be alone without him watching her every move, breathing the same air, sleeping under the same roof?
His jaw tightened. "If not here, then where exactly do you plan on sleeping?" he asked, though he already knew the answer wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to indulge her whims. He wasn’t going to give her what she wanted.
Allowing her to stay elsewhere would mean losing control of the situation. She’d be out of his reach, left to scheme in her very own quiet privacy, which was exactly the sort of thing she’d do. Especially once night fell when the quiet made it easier to plot, easier to execute her planned escape.
Keeping her close, contained, and within arm’s reach was the only way to ensure she didn’t slip through his fingers like smoke. And if he was being honest with himself, there was another reason too, one he’d rather not examine too closely. He found her fascinating. Infuriating, yes, but fascinating all the same. Watching her was like staring down a coiled serpent, equal parts beautiful and dangerous.
There was always the very real risk that she might stab him in the chest while he slept but somehow, he was beginning to think the risk might be worth it.
"There are other rooms in this place, aren’t there? And even if there weren’t, I’d sooner sleep in the kitchen, or the stables," she snapped, her chin lifted in defiance. "I’d take my chances in the forest before I ever share this room with you." frёewebnoѵēl.com
Her stubbornness was as maddening as it was admirable. Ragnar should have taken offense, most men would. Her words were more than an insult, they were a declaration of utter disdain. But instead of feeling slighted, he found himself transfixed by her. There was a fire blazing behind her eyes, raw and untamed. It wasn’t just fury, it was power, wild and dangerous. The kind of fire that could burn down an entire kingdom if left unchecked.
Before either of them could speak again, a sharp knock echoed from the door, cutting the moment between them short. The tension that had stretched between them like a taut bowstring snapped all at once.
Ragnar’s gaze darted to the door, distracted and Circe seized the opportunity. With a sudden yank, she slipped free from his grip and stumbled back a few paces, putting space between them. Her breathing was uneven, and she rubbed at her wrist where the pressure of his hand had left a dull ache throbbing just beneath her skin.
Ragnar didn’t move and something resembling guilt flashed across his face when he noticed her rubbing her wrists.
"Enter," he called, voice steadier than he felt.
The door creaked open slowly, its hinges groaning under the weight. Nieah appeared in the doorway. She stepped inside, gave a low bow, and then turned her attention to Circe.
"Your Highness," she said, "your brother wishes to see you."
For a heartbeat, Circe didn’t move but something in her expression shifted, and refocused. As though Nieah’s words had reminded her of who she was, of what was truly important. Her brother.
"Yes. Of course," she murmured, already halfway to the door before the sentence had fully left her lips.
She didn’t spare Ragnar another glance as she passed by him, as though their interaction never happened to begin with, the fabric of her skirts swishing around her legs as she walked.
