She woke with her head tucked into the crook of his arm, blinking slowly as she chased away the lingering remnants of sleep. She barely moved, too comfortable and content in her position to bother shifting.
A mont later, her gaze drifted upward, and she beca fully aware of the man lying beside her.
His eyes were still closed, lashes dark against his skin, his chest bare where the covers had slipped low. Morning light spilled into the chamber in pale ribbons, softening the sharp planes of his face. She studied him in silence, taking in the masculine beauty of his face. His dark brows, the strong line of his nose, the supple curve of his lips and the scar that cut across his brow.
By all accounts, the scar should have marred his appearance. It should have detracted from it. Instead, it did the opposite. It lent him a severity and irresistibility that often stole the breath from her lungs each ti she looked too closely.
More often than she cared to admit, she caught herself staring at him just as she was now, mapping his face with her eyes alone, as though she were seeing him for the first ti. And each ti, that strange emotion in her chest swelled and expanded, pressing outward until it felt too large to be contained within her ribcage.
Her gaze drifted lower. She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, slow and even in sleep. Faint scars traced his skin—small, pale marks scattered across ridges of muscle, evidence of the battles he fought and survived. Her fingers tingled with the urge to touch them, to trace their paths and learn their stories. She wanted to press her lips to each one.
She hadn’t realized how intently she was staring until a low, husky chuckle broke the quiet.
"It is always a delight to be the object of your focus, wife."
The sound of his voice, rough with sleep, sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.
She lifted her eyes to his face and found him already watching her, one arm still cradling her, a slow smile curving his lips.
For a mont, she could only open and close her mouth, words deserting her entirely as heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
"How did you get the scar on your face?" she asked instead, as it was the only thing that ca to her mind in that instant.
The mont the question left her lips, she wished she could snatch it back.
Ragnar had told her there were no forbidden questions between them, but she knew that so things were better left untouched. And the scar, etched permanently into his face, felt like one of those things. She braced herself for his reaction, expecting his body to stiffen, his expression to shutter closed, for him to turn away from her altogether.
But none of that happened.
"It happened while I was stationed at the southern border," he said calmly, the words flowing without hesitation. He spoke easily, like he wasn’t bothered by the question at all. "My troops and I were attacked by a group of foreign soldiers. We were taken completely by surprise."
His thumb traced a slow, idle line along her arm as he continued. "We eventually subdued them, but before that, one of them managed to slash at my face. It nearly took my eye out." A faint breath of amusent left him. "I stepped back before he could do worse. But it was still a miracle that I left that day mostly unscathed."
It had happened only days before his wedding. Back then, still vain and young, the scar had troubled him endlessly. But Luria had reassured him that it changed nothing, that it did not alter how she saw him. Soon after, far more pressing matters had risen to consu his attention, and the mark on his face felt insignificant in comparison.
Now, it was simply a part of him. No different from his hands or his hair. Sothing he no longer thought much about.
"It makes you look very striking," Circe said softly, then hesitated as warmth flooded her cheeks. "And... handso. Very handso."
She watched as a smile slowly spread across his face. He looked undeniably pleased by her words.
"If it’s coming from you then it must be true," he said, laughter threading his words.
After a mont, his expression softened, the humor giving way to sothing gentler, more thoughtful.
"May I ask you sothing as well?"
She saw no reason to refuse. Circe nodded, her gaze lingering on the profile of his face as she waited.
"Can you tell sothing about your life before Lamora?"
The request startled her more than she expected, though she knew it shouldn’t have. It was inevitable that he would ask. If not now, then soday.
Her mind raced, sorting through safer mories. She could tell him about her older brother, how close they had been as children. She could speak of her mother and the stories she used to tell her of ancient creatures and forgotten myths.
She could ntion her favorite lady’s maid in Westeria and the small, reckless acts of mischief they had gotten into.
Yet the words poised at the tip of her tongue were none of those things.
Instead, they were things she had never given voice to before, secrets she had carried alone.
"When I was very young, I discovered I could sense when people were lying. It was instinctual. I don’t know how it started because it had simply always been sothing I could do," she said gently. Only now did she realize it must have been tied to her power, but back then she had been utterly clueless, too young to question it or make sense of it.
Ragnar did not interrupt her, though she knew this revelation must have co as a shock. His silence gave her the space she needed, and she clung to it.
"I never told anyone about it," she continued quietly. "I was afraid they wouldn’t believe or worse, that they would look at like I was sothing strange. I didn’t want that, so I kept it to myself. I hid it from everyone, even my own mother." Her fingers curled slightly into the covers. "But sohow my father found out, and—"Her voice broke.
She lowered her gaze, smoothing her hand over the soft fabric as if grounding herself in the present. "I was only eight years old when he dragged to witness a trial for the first ti. He made sit beside him after privately instructing on what he expected from . I was to nod when the accused spoke the truth and shake my head when they lied." Her throat tightened. "He punished liars more harshly. Sotis he sentenced people to death for petty cris like street theft, and other minor offenses simply because they tried to lie to him. He told it was the least I could do for my kingdom."
She swallowed. "But I was just a child, and those deaths weighed heavily on . They still do. Especially knowing that I was the reason for them."
Reviews
All reviews (0)