Carved wooden beams crossed the ceiling, their dark grain polished by ti and care. The furniture was heavy and ornate, each chair and table etched with delicate patterns. A woven rug lay before the fire, its colors softened with age but still rich, threads of deep red and gold catching the glow of the flas.
Ragnar shut the door behind them, brushing snow from his coat. lted flakes fell in quiet taps against the wooden floor.
"This was theirs," he said lightly, gesturing around the room. "Every piece."
Circe looked at him curiously. "Who?"
He moved past her, releasing her from his hold to run a hand over the back of one of the chairs as though greeting an old friend. "The cottage belonged to the couple who took in when I was a baby. Faye and her husband, Edmund."
Her brows lifted in quiet surprise.
"They were already older when my mother first approached them for help," he continued, his tone light, and conversational, as he reminisced about fond mories from the past. "Had children of their own. Grandchildren older than I was. But that never seed to matter to them. They treated like I was simply another one of their children. They used to call their late blessing."
A faint smile touched his lips, almost amused by the recollection.
"Ms. Faye insisted I sit at the table with everyone else, even when she didn’t have to." His fingers traced the carved wood absently. "And Edmund..." He shook his head softly. "Edmund taught how to carve with wood. Very poorly, I might add. I ruined more pieces of wood than I ever managed to shape them."
Circe’s gaze softened as she moved deeper into the room, her fingers grazing the carved edge of a sideboard, feeling the shallow grooves left there.
"They must have loved you very much," she said.
"They did." There was no hesitation in the answer.
He guided her toward the kitchen next. It was smaller, brightened by a narrow window overlooking the clearing. Pale light filtered through the glass, glinting off copper pots that hung neatly along the wall. The table bore faint knife marks and shallow dents from years of use.
"I stayed here until the king discovered I existed," Ragnar said, leaning back against the kitchen table. "After that, I was brought to the palace. But I visited whenever I could or whenever my father would allow too." And it was a good thing that his father often didn’t care about what he did. His mouth curved, though there was a faint sadness in the expression. "I did not want to lose the people who cared for before anyone else knew my true identity."
Circe studied him quietly, as though trying to picture the boy he had been within these walls.
"They passed away three years after I joined the army," he added. "Both within months of each other. They left this cottage to ."
Circe was glad that he had people that cared for him so unconditionally, even though she couldn’t help the stab of envy from lancing through her chest. The only person that had truly cared for her when she was growing up was her mother and now all the fond mories she had of her was now tainted with all the secrets she kept, the pretence and all the lies she told.
He nodded once. "I tried to refuse it. I tried to return it to their children. It felt..." He paused, searching for the word. "Too much for them to just hand this place over to when I wasn’t even their blood. I had already taken enough from them in the years I lived with them."
"And they refused?" she guessed.
"They would not hear of it." A brief breath left him. "They said it was a gift. That it was mine to do with as I pleased."
Circe stepped closer. "And you kept it."
"I kept it," he confird. "I could not live here year-round, of course. But I hired soone to maintain it. To make sure it did not fall into ruin." His gaze moved around the kitchen, assessing with quiet approval. "He has done well."
From there, he led her down a narrow corridor. A small study waited with a desk near the window. A guest room held folded quilts that still carried the faint scent of cedar. Ragnar sent word before making the trip here so he wasn’t surprised by how spotless the entire place was. Each space bore the sa careful order, ticulously arranged in preparation of their arrival.
At the final door, he paused.
"This," he said, resting his hand on the thick wooden surface, "is where we will be sleeping."
He turned the knob and pushed it open.
The bedroom was modest compared to the one they had back in their manor, but its proportions made it feel cozy rather than small. A neatly made bed stood against the far wall, layered with thick blankets and linen sheets. A wooden dresser stood on the other side of the room, its surface polished to a muted sheen. A small settee was positioned near the hearth and a tall mirror leaned in the corner.
Circe stepped inside, smiling without restraint. Her gaze moved slowly from the bed to the dresser, then to the settee and the mirror, taking in every detail.
"It’s perfect," she murmured.
Ragnar watched her for a mont longer, sothing unreadable passing through his expression, before moving quietly behind her.
She did not notice him until his arms slid around her waist.
He drew her back against him and lowered his face to the curve of her neck, nuzzling gently. Her skin was cold against his lips from their ti outside.
He inhaled, breathing in her delectable scent. Vanilla. But there was sothing new threaded through it now, a faint hint of jasmine.
He took another slow breath, filling his lungs with her scent, and felt the now-familiar ache stir at the edges of his fangs.
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