That night, Ragnar found Circe tucked away in one of the hidden alcoves near the servants' quarters. She was fast asleep, and she barely stirred as he approached her. She didn't even twitch when he crouched down beside her.
She lay on her side on the cold stone floor, knees drawn close to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around herself in a protective curl. The dim glow from the nearby sconces cast a gentle light across her face, softening her sharp features and giving her an almost ethereal look. For a moment, Ragnar simply stood there, watching her. Her expression was peaceful, unguarded. It was such a rare sight that it tugged at something deep within him.
He shook his head and let out a low breath.
"Stubborn, infuriating woman," he muttered, though the corners of his lips betrayed him by lifting into a reluctant smile. Even curled on the floor like that, she looked more at ease than she ever did when awake and scowling at him.
