Putting on a dress with an injured shoulder was far more difficult than taking it off. Circe ca to this realization as she stood before the mirror, struggling for what felt like the hundredth ti to fasten the laces of her gown.
She had intentionally chosen one of her simpler dresses, one she assud would be kinder to her wounded shoulder, but the pain and limited range of motion made even the simplest task irritatingly complicated. Every tug of the laces sparked a sharp ache that crept down her arm. Each failed attempt only stoked her frustration.
"It shouldn’t be this hard," she muttered under her breath, letting out a groan as the lace slipped from her fingers yet again.
In the ti she had spent wrestling with the dress, she could have walked to Ragnar’s study, collected the new ointnt, and returned twice over. The thought of having to remove the dress to apply the salve and then suffer through putting it back on, made her want to scream into the nearest pillow until her throat burned.
After another futile attempt, Circe exhaled a long breath and finally admitted defeat. She knew when she had been thoroughly bested, and this dress had soundly claid victory. She would have to call for a maid or Nieah or anyone with two functional arms.
But before she could even draw breath to call out, a knock sounded at the door.
Relief, imdiate, and overwhelming, washed through her. She practically lunged forward to open it, not caring who might be standing on the other side.
It wasn’t a maid, nor was it Nieah. But Circe found she didn’t care. In fact, seeing Ragnar there turned out far better than anything she could have hoped for.
The corner of Ragnar’s mouth quirked upward when she grabbed him by the wrist with her uninjured arm and pulled him inside without hesitation. Her dress still hung loosely around her fra, laces half-done, but she seed unbothered by that. And to Ragnar, it was a staggering improvent from the last ti he had seen her.
The door closed behind them with a quiet click, sealing them in together. This was not the first ti they had been alone behind closed doors, nor the second, yet the air still felt charged, taut with a tension that tugged at sothing coiled deep between the both of them. It was as if they stood at the edge of a precipice, waiting for sothing unnad to tip them over.
Ragnar’s gaze flickered briefly, recalling the glimpse he had caught of her only monts before. The smooth line of her exposed shoulder, the delicate curve of her collarbone. The mory alone made his fangs ache.
She would taste sweet, he thought. Like divine nectar on his tongue.
Her lips parted, and his breath stalled. He wanted to kiss her. To taste her again. To consu her until he stole her breath. His thoughts tangled and darkened, each more sinful than the last, until he realized belatedly that he had taken a step toward her.
He halted, masking the hunger simring inside him with a faint smile, one ant to conceal just how much he thought about her, to hide how she featured in his more depraved thoughts.
Circe opened her mouth to ask about the ointnt, but then her gaze dipped. She saw what he carried in his hand for the first ti since she pulled him inside.
Relief washed through her yet again, loosening sothing tight in her chest. She imdiately reached for it, only for Ragnar to lift it swiftly out of reach.
She blinked, confused. "Ragnar?"
He didn’t answer. Instead, he made a small gesture with his hand, telling her to turn around.
Circe stared at him as though he had grown a second head. His expression didn’t change and the light smile tugging at his mouth remained steady.
"Turn," he repeated, his voice low and deep, vibrating through her in a way she didn’t understand and couldn’t ignore.
She gave him one last narrow-eyed look before slowly turning to face away from him.
They stood in the center of the room, a wide expanse of silence stretching between them. With her back turned, she could not see him, and that only sharpened her awareness of every breath she took. It felt as though ti itself held still, waiting alongside her for his next move.
Her breath hitched when she felt him step closer. Warmth radiated from him, a palpable presence at her back. She went still, rooted to the spot even as every nerve in her body sharpened into painful focus.
She felt the soft brush of his breath against her neck for a second, then another.
"Let ," he whispered, his lips so close to her ear she felt the words more than heard them.
She wasn’t sure what he was asking. She wasn’t sure if he was asking anything at all. But she nodded anyway, helpless against his pull.
His hand slid around her torso, fingers working deftly as he loosened the laces she had struggled with for what felt like an eternity. She stared down at the floor, more stunned that he was undoing all her hard-won progress than by the fact that he was undressing her without hesitation.
When the last lace ca free, Ragnar gently tugged the fabric aside, just enough to bare her bruised shoulder to his view.
Circe clutched the dress to her chest with her good arm, knowing that if she let go, the entire garnt would slip and pool around her feet. Her heartbeat thudded wildly.
The room was so quiet she imagined she could hear a pin drop in the hallway.
A soft twist of a lid reached her ears. Then the cool salve touched her heated skin.
She inhaled sharply. The contrast of cold ointnt and warm fingers sent a shiver across her body. His touch was gentle, careful not to cause her anymore pain.
His fingertips moved slowly, tracing the curve of her shoulder with a reverence that made her eyes flutter shut.
The sensation rushed through her like a fever rush, hot, and entirely consuming.
And she knew, with humiliating clarity, that Ragnar felt every tremble that ran through her.
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