Layleen
The moment I hear his voice, the air in my lungs vanishes. My breath catches, and for a fleeting second, I forget everything—the dull sting blooming on my forehead, the likely red mark that will form soon. None of it matters.
All I can focus on is the intoxicating scent of pine and the firm, steady warmth of his hand resting on my waist.
"Layleen?"
The sound of my name barely registers before he suddenly spins me around. Our bodies nearly collide, the movement so abrupt that my breath stutters in my throat.
Startled, I instinctively recoil, my back knocking into the sharp edge of the shelf. Another sharp jolt of pain shoots through me, but before I can react, Ragnar's hands tighten around my waist, firm yet careful. In a swift, controlled motion, he presses me against the opposite wall—trapping me, securing me—ensuring I don't hurt myself again.
