It had only taken a few hours for true exhaustion to set in. It seeped into her skin like a cold mist, burrowing deep into her bones until even breathing felt like an effort. For more than two days, Circe had drifted in and out of consciousness, waking only long enough to relieve herself and choke down a few bites of the food pressed upon her before her head inevitably sank back into the pillow.
The only constant through these cycles of wakefulness and sleep was Ragnar's presence. He was always there whenever she woke, silent and watchful, immovable as the furniture.
Circe hated the way a simple act from a man she loathed could bring her any measure of comfort. But she could not deny that it did. No one had ever lingered for her sake like this, not since her mother had died. Her ladies maids might have fussed over her in the past, but that was their duty, not a choice. She was accustomed to being the one who cared for others, not the one who was cared for.
