Free Web NovelChapter 92: Chapter 92
A grand carriage rolled through the wrought-iron gates of Ragnar’s manor the next day, its black surface gleaming beneath the bright afternoon sun. The clatter of hooves slowed to silence, and moments later Nieah swept into Ragnar’s study to inform him about their guest’s arrival.
She stepped inside and greeted him with a dipped her head.
"Your Highness," she said without preamble, her voice carrying the crisp tone of someone bringing important news. "Lady Maelis and her son, Ansel, have arrived. They are waiting in the parlour." freēwēbηovel.c૦m
Ragnar, seated behind his broad desk, did not look up immediately. He was in the process of melting a stick of deep red wax over the seam of a folded document, the slow drip forming a glossy seal.
"Did they say why they came?" he asked, his tone measured, as he let another droplet fall onto the parchment.
"No, they did not, Your Highness," Nieah replied, watching him press his personal stamp of House Acheron into the warm wax, the signet’s intricate crest glinting as it caught the light.
"That’s fine," Ragnar murmured, finally lifting his gaze from his work. His eyes were sharp with undecipherable emotions. "Let them know I will be with them shortly."
When he rose from his chair and strode out from his study, Ragnar anticipated several possible reasons for the Hawthornes’ sudden visit. But none of them prepared him for the sight awaiting him in the parlour.
There, seated comfortably on a chaise, was Circe leaning forward with a rare look of open curiosity as she listened to Lady Maelis. The older woman was speaking animatedly, recounting tales from her life before coming to Lamora. Circe drank in every word with rapt attention, her eyes fixed on the Maelis, the corners of her lips softening into something dangerously close to a smile. She did not even notice Ragnar standing in the doorway.
How long had they been in each other’s company to achieve such easy familiarity? How was it that Circe, who often looked at him as though he was an inconvenience she was forced to endure, could warm so quickly to others?
It was Ansel who first caught sight of him. The young man rose at once, bowing low in deference. "Your Highness," he said with practiced courtesy.
Lady Maelis followed suit, sinking into an elegant curtsey, her long silk skirts brushing lightly against the carpet.
But the air in the parlour shifted with Ragnar’s arrival. The change in the atmosphere was immediate. Where moments ago the air had been light, filled with the ease of pleasant conversation, Ragnar’s entrance seemed to draw it tight, weaving an undercurrent of tension through the room.
"Excuse me," she said quietly as she rose to her feet. Her tone was polite, but there was a faint urgency to her movements. She wanted to remove herself from whatever tension had just bloomed. She clearly took his presence as her cue to leave.
"You don’t have to go," Ragnar told her, his gaze following her approach. His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it, a desire for her to remain.
From the beginning of their marriage, he had never been afraid of Circe using information overheard within the manor against him. He didn’t know where that kind of trust came from, especially when trust, for him, had always been a hard and grudging thing to obtain.
If his wife wanted to hurt him, she would prefer to do so with her bare hands. After the night they argued and fought over Jayran’s knife, Ragnar had learned that she was not the sort of woman to wait until her enemy was asleep to strike from the shadows. No, Circe would drive the blade into her enemy’s chest while they were wide awake, ensuring they saw the hilt sticking out of the wound before they took their last breath.
She previously assumed that he and Maelis were on friendly terms and didn’t understand the reason for the sudden frost between them. Still, Circe wanted to leave now before the tightening air became suffocating.
"I have other matters to attend to," she said almost immediately, brushing past him.
Matters like what? The question burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it back. She would only scowl and tell him it was none of his concern. So instead, Ragnar inclined his head in silent acknowledgment, letting her go.
From the corner of his eye, however, he caught Ansel watching her retreat with far more interest than was proper, his gaze lingering a heartbeat too long.
When Maelis straightened from her curtsey, her expression carried genuine concern.
"We would have come sooner," she began carefully, "but we feared our presence might unsettle Her Highness while she recovered from the horrific ordeal she endured. My son and I are here to extend our sincerest apologies for what happened during the ball. Since it occurred on our grounds, we bear some measure of blame."
Ragnar’s face remained perfectly still. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate. "Did you orchestrate the attack on my wife?"
Maelis’s eyes widened as her hands flew to her chest. "I—no! I would never do such a thing."
"Then I have no use for your apology," he replied, his tone calm but cutting all the same. "What I ask is that you ensure that you employ guards who are competent the next time you choose to host an event. You are a good friend of mine, Maelis Hawthorne, one of my closest allies. Ours is not a bond that can be easily broken but I will not step foot in your home again, nor bring my wife there, until you can tell me how an assassin slipped past your security at your ball. And after that, you will need to provide me with proof, tangible proof, that such a lapse will never happen again. I do not believe I am asking for much."
Her gaze dropped to the floor, her voice small. "No, Your Highness. You are not."
