Free Web NovelChapter 67: Chapter 67
Ragnar’s steps faltered as she passed him. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was the expression in her eyes or the absence of one or perhaps it was the fact that she didn’t even glance his way, didn’t pause, or utter a single word. He wasn’t sure and yet, the moment lingered longer than he liked.
She moved past him like a shadow, silent and unbothered, and he caught a faint trace of her scent, vanilla, with an undertone he couldn’t quite place. Something earthy, almost wild. It tugged at a part of his memory that refused to come forward, teasing him with its familiarity.
It was maddening, the way her presence seemed to cling to the air, even long after she was gone. frёewebηovel.cѳm
Ragnar exhaled slowly. His body was still coiled with tension, but now it wasn’t just Jayran’s words echoing in his mind. Her silence and her deliberate refusal to acknowledge him unnerved him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. It had been easier when she glared at him, when she snapped with sharp words or met his gaze with blazing defiance. But this? This quiet, unbothered dismissal, unsettled him far more.
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Circe walked briskly down the long corridors, the cold stone beneath her slippers doing little to cool the frustration simmering within her. As she passed each bedroom, she tested the locks again, fingers tugging at the brass handles, hoping in vain for one to give way. But they were all locked, just like they had been last night.
How long did Ragnar plan to keep them that way?
The answer came to her without much thought. It didn’t matter how long the doors stayed locked, as long as it left her with no choice but to return to his chambers each night. It was a calculated move. A silent reminder that she was not free, that her options, like her movements, were carefully restricted.
Circe pushed open the heavy door to Ragnar’s bedchambers, letting it swing shut behind her with a dull click. She moved through the familiar space with stiff steps and collapsed at the foot of the massive four-poster bed, her body sinking into the mattress as if weighed down by more than just exhaustion.
With a huff, she flipped open her journal to a bookmarked page, her eyes landing on a drawing she’d worked on the night before. It was a quick stitch of a magpie, at least, that had been her intent. In the dim light of the library’s hidden alcove, it had seemed passable, even good. But now, in the clarity of daylight streaming through the parted curtains, all she saw were flaws.
The lines were uneven and rushed, the form was misshapen. The bird looked more like a lopsided crow than a magpie. It was, without question, the worst sketch she had produced since she was a child fumbling with her first piece of charcoal.
Frustrated, Circe let her head fall back against the bed with a groan. Her nerves were frayed and her patience was wearing thin. The drawing wasn’t the true cause of her foul mood, it was just the last straw. Everything felt wrong. Everything was wrong. And somehow, it all traced back to one man.
Ragnar.
She loathed him with every fiber of her being. She hated the way he looked at her, hated the power he held over her life. And yet, without warning, her mind dredged up remnants of the strange dream she had earlier that morning, fragments of images and feelings she hadn’t dared examine too closely. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com
She shook her head quickly, as if to physically push the memory away. She wasn’t ready to unravel that tangled thread just yet. She doubted she ever would be.
Her discomfort from the horse ride back to the manor hadn’t faded. Sweat still clung to her skin, sticky despite the chill in the air. She raised her arm and frowned at the specks of dust and grime smudging her sleeve and fingers from when she had crouched to search for her dagger on the floor. The sight made her long for a bath, for the warmth and stillness that might offer some measure of peace.
Circe rose from the bed and crossed the room to the small chest tucked in a corner. She opened it and sifted through the neatly folded garments, the simple servant clothes Irah had given her at the palace. After a moment of indecision, she pulled out a plain brown dress, one of the more modest pieces, and folded the rest away before shutting the lid.
With the dress in hand, she made her way to the adjoining bathing chambers. The scent of bath oils still lingered faintly in the air, a blend of rose and sandalwood. The bathwater, which the maids had drawn the moment she and Ragnar returned from Lady Maelis’s estate, had cooled by now but she didn’t care. Temperature was a distant concern. All she wanted was to feel clean.
Stripping off the travel-worn dress she had on, Circe stepped carefully into the tub. The water lapped against her skin as she sank in, and she exhaled slowly, the tension in her muscles unwinding bit by bit. She reached for one of the perfumed soaps and lathered it over her arms and shoulders, working the sweet-scented suds across her skin until she felt scrubbed of the day’s grime. When she was done, she dunked her head beneath the water, letting it wash over her.
When she emerged, water cascaded from her hair and trailed down her spine in cold rivulets. She stood and wrapped a towel around herself briefly before tugging on the plain brown dress. It clung damply to her still-wet skin, but she didn’t mind. The act of dressing felt like reclaiming some small measure of control.
Hair still dripping, she stepped out of the bathing chamber and back into the bedroom, her thoughts quieter now.
But the silence didn’t bring peace, it only left more room for the thoughts she was trying desperately to not entertain. Little did she know that she was no longer alone in the room.
She barely heard the bedroom doors open while she was still in the bathing chambers.
