Ragnar gazed down at the sparring match between Kostia and Casilo from his place by the open window of his study. The clash of swords echoed faintly up to him, their footwork graceful yet precise. It should have captivated him. On any other day, it would have. But today, something else had managed to snag his attention.

Not something. Someone.

Circe.

She was the current, unrelenting pain in his side.

He still couldn’t comprehend how one person could be so infuriating, so endlessly combative, and yet so damn intriguing. Her anger was a force of nature, raw and undiluted, like a tempest that refused to be tamed. Her temper had a life of its own, sparking like fire whenever she looked at him.

But every time she glared at him or lashed him with her sharp tongue, he felt that same strange pull toward her. She fascinated him in a way that left him bewildered.

He wasn’t sure whether to grin or scowl whenever he recalled the events of the previous night, the way her teeth had sunk into the skin of his hand with such vicious intent. Her barbed words still echoed in his mind, and the memory of her eyes burning with unfiltered rage stirred something in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

Ragnar had told himself the only reason he went to Rowen’s chambers to retrieve her was because he couldn’t trust her not to escape if left unsupervised. She had made her intentions clear enough. She planned to leave Lamora at the first opportunity. It had been a simple matter of keeping her under close watch.

But he would be lying if he claimed that was his only motivation.

If all he truly cared about was keeping her under control, he could have assigned someone to guard her door. There were always people patrolling the land surrounding the manor at night. And Rowen’s room was on the third floor, far too high for a stealthy escape through the window.

The truth, however, was far more complicated.

He had gone to retrieve her because he wanted her back in his chambers. Because the thought of her being anywhere else—out of his sight, out of his reach—gnawed at him. He couldn’t understand it, not yet. But as he lay alone in his bed last night, the silence pressing in on him like a heavy shroud, he’d thought about their time together in the palace, how, despite her hatred, they had inevitably spent time in each other’s company. How she met his presence with fire in her eyes and defiance in her voice. And he realized that he wanted that fire near him again.

He wanted Circe close. He wanted her within reach. Within his reach. And he still didn’t fully understand why.

"You know," came a voice from behind him, smooth and amused, "you can always go down there and join them. You don’t have to stand here brooding by the window."

Ragnar stiffened slightly. He hadn’t heard her come in.

"Why didn’t you knock?" he asked, turning to face Nieah. His tone carried a sharpness that bordered on irritation. This study was one of the few places in the manor where he kept sensitive documents and personal ledgers. He disliked the idea of anyone barging in unannounced, even someone he trusted.

"I did," Nieah replied lightly, a hint of laughter lacing her voice. "Multiple times, actually. You were just too far gone in your thoughts to hear me."

"Oh," Ragnar muttered, caught off guard. He turned back to the window, not wanting to meet her knowing gaze.

Nieah, out of everyone in his life, had an uncanny ability to see through him. She could easily see through his defenses, through the masks he wore, even through the walls he carefully constructed around his mind. She had a talent for prying out truths he didn’t want to admit, let alone speak aloud. It made him wary of her when he was keeping secrets, especially from himself.

"So," she said, stepping closer, "am I allowed to ask why you’re hovering by the window like a ghost?"

Ragnar didn’t respond as she came to stand beside him, her gaze sweeping over the scene below. He noticed how her eyes lingered briefly on Casilo before darting away.

"I’m just taking in the view," Ragnar said tersely. "Since when did everything I do become a subject of interrogation?"

There was a sharp edge to his words, one that wasn’t aimed at Nieah, but at himself. At his own irritation and confusion.

"Hm," she hummed thoughtfully. "Does that view, by any chance, include a certain fiery-tempered wife of yours?"

Ragnar scowled. "I hardly even notice her."

The lie hung heavily in the space between them, unconvincing even to his own ears. She was all he noticed. Every time she entered a room, his attention snapped to her like metal to a magnet—whether he wanted it to or not.

Nieah gave a soft, knowing hum, and then changed the subject—though not by much.

"You’re usually the one sparring with Casilo in the mornings," she said casually. "Why aren’t you down there now?"

Ragnar’s reply came out before he could stop himself. "Because I wouldn’t put it past my wife to run me through with Casilo’s sword if I did."

Nieah turned her head slowly toward him, one brow arched. "And whose fault is that?"

He pressed his lips into a thin line and said nothing.

He knew the answer. And he knew that Nieah’s words were a subtle reminder of the main goal.

He knew his plan. He knew he had to get her to like him, to trust him, for any of it to work. Antagonizing her wasn’t just counterproductive, it was reckless. Foolish. Dangerous. He reminded himself of this every day.

And yet... every time they were in the same room, it was like something primal ignited between them. She drew out the worst parts of him, the stubbornness, the sarcasm, the need to provoke and push. And whenever that happened, he would hardly be able to remember his plans. It was instinct at this point.

It was her and he didn’t know what to do with that.