Claimed by the vampire prince

Chapter 73: Chapter 73

Circe was perched on the edge of Rowen’s bed, her journal splayed open across her lap, when the distant sound of hooves reached her ears. She froze. The last time she had heard horses approaching the manor, it had ended with her being summoned to the palace by the queen.

Slowly, she closed the journal and slid off the bed. She crept toward the window, lifting the curtain just enough to peer outside. A woman she had never seen before was making her way toward the front entrance with confident strides.

Not even a full minute later, a knock sounded on Rowen’s door. freewёbnoνel.com

Her gaze snapped to the door just as it creaked open. A maid entered without waiting for a reply. Circe recognized her immediately. She was one of the young women who worked in the gardens. She looked flustered, her cheeks flushed and her breathing uneven, as though she had rushed all the way there.

Circe hated the fact that her brother’s room door didn’t lock from the inside. There was barely any privacy to be had when anyone could so easily barge inside whenever they pleased. The fact that Ragnar himself had chosen this room for her brother spoke more than words ever could. Along with Ragnar’s insistence to have her in his room each night, they were all tiny reminders of what she and Rowen truly were in Lamora and what they would continue to be if they remained.

Prisoners.

Privacy was a luxury, one that was rarely afforded to prisoners like them.

The maid gave a quick curtsey. "Your Highness, you have a visitor," she announced, her voice breathless.

Circe’s brows pulled together. A visitor? That made no sense. She knew no one in Lamora well enough to be receiving unexpected guests.

"Who is it?" she asked warily.

The maid opened her mouth to answer, but before she could get a word out, another voice interrupted from the doorway.

"The seamstress has arrived to take your measurements, Your Highness," Nieah said smoothly as she stepped into view, her presence alone enough to make the maid shrink back. With a subtle wave of her hand, she dismissed the girl, who dipped into another curtsey and quickly retreated without meeting anyone’s eyes.

Circe turned to face Nieah fully, her expression suspicious.

"Why would a seamstress be here to take my measurements?" she asked, confusion lacing her tone. She glanced down at the plain, worn dress she wore. It was so old that the stitches along the hem were starting to fray.

Nieah offered her a kind smile. "I’m getting measured as well, so there’s no need to be concerned." She turned briskly and gestured for Circe to follow.

Though Circe remained wary, she decided there was no harm in going along, at least for now.

Nieah led her down the corridor to a room that was rarely used; the manor’s formal parlour. It sat mostly untouched because Ragnar almost never hosted guests. He preferred to meet people at their own homes, a habit that even Circe had picked up on.

Standing at the center of the room was a tall woman with blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun. She was admiring the space with a look of polite curiosity, but the moment she noticed their approach, her features softened into an expression of practiced civility.

She dipped into a curtsey as the two women entered. Her gaze settled squarely on Circe, a smile blooming across her face.

"It’s an honor to have been invited here," she said warmly. "You must be the lady I was commissioned to design dresses for. It’s truly a pleasure to be working with you, my lady."

Circe stared at her, momentarily at a loss for words. She hadn’t expected any of this, and she was too bewildered to speak.

The seamstress hadn’t addressed her as "Your Highness," but Circe didn’t care enough to correct her. Titles meant little in a place where she had no power.

She remained still as the woman began pulling tools from her leather pouch and measuring her frame with swift, practiced movements, murmuring measurements and jotting them down with care.

The moment stirred a quiet ache in Circe’s chest. It reminded her of home, of how the royal seamstress would come every few weeks to measure her for new gowns, especially when court events were approaching. Back then, new dresses had been an afterthought, part of a life filled with ceremony, privilege, and choice.

"Before I forget," the seamstress said, as she carefully measured the width of Circe’s waist, " what are your favorite colors, my lady?"

Circe hesitated.

" Blue." Circe said. " Sometimes green." She added after a bit of thought.

The seamstress nodded thoughtfully. "What about pastels?"

Circe raised an eyebrow. " What about them?"

" Are you partial to them? Most noble ladies prefer pastels these days. They’re quite popular."

" I don’t abhor them, if that’s what you’re asking," Circe replied dryly.

Just then, a shift in the atmosphere drew her attention. She looked up and froze.

Ragnar stood in the doorway, silent and unreadable. She hadn’t heard him approach. He was almost never at home during the afternoons, and the fact that he was here now, watching this, made something coil in her stomach.

Their eyes met for only a second before he turned and disappeared down the hall. Circe was sure of how long he had stood there.

Just like that, everything clicked into place and she felt foolish for not realizing it sooner.

Ragnar had commissioned new clothes for her. He was probably tired of the eyesore she made in her old clothes.

She should have felt relief. Grateful even. She had been forced to rely on the threadbare gowns Lady Irah had given her. She should be glad that she no longer had to endure the judgmental glances or the discomfort of too-tight seams.

She should have been happy but she wasn’t because it didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like another link in the chain.

Circe clenched her fists.

She hated that she was already reliant on him for meals and that the manor they lived in belonged to him, her pride wouldn’t survive if she let him clothed her as well.

There was a difference between generosity and control, and she didn’t know exactly where Ragnar’s kindness ended and where his ownership began.

"Please excuse me," she said suddenly, stepping away from the seamstress and Nieah.

Circe didn’t wait for a response. Without another word, she strode out of the parlour and down the hall, following the path Ragnar had taken.