Ragnar's hand wrapped around her wrist, hard even to bruise. His grip was as tight as shackles made of steel, biting into the tender skin of her wrist.
Circe's breath caught in her throat. She tried to jerk free, but it was useless.
He pulled her sharply toward him, forcing her to look up at his face, into his eyes. There was a storm of agitation brewing in its depth. Something deeper that made her stomach twist, though she refused to let it show. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing fear or regret in her expression.
Her back brushed against the edge of the side table. The cool wood grounded her and sharpened her awareness. Her free hand slipped behind her, fingers darting across the table's surface in a frantic search. She needed something. Anything she could possibly use as a weapon. She wouldn't stand there and let him corner her like some helpless thing.
