Ragnar lowered himself to the edge of the bed where Circe slept soundlessly. The chamber was quiet in the pale hush of dawn, the air cool and faintly scented with the remnants of last night's extinguished candles. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest with each breath she took. As he did, he allowed his gaze to rove over the gentle lines of her face, the relaxed arch of her brows, the softness of her mouth, the faint shadow cast by her lashes against her cheeks.
A loose lock of her hair had fallen across her face sometime while she slept. He raised his hand, the movement hesitant. His fingers hovered just inches from her skin before freezing midair, uncertainty rooting him in place. For a brief moment, he considered pulling back entirely.
