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The one word from him almost sent her straight to the floor. It was an order. It was a command. And it was obvious what would follow if she did.
But she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
Instinct took over. Turning, she picked up a metal candelabra from the nightstand and threw it at his head. He deflected it with a wave of his arm, the projectile clanging off his armor harmlessly before clattering to the ground.
The smile on his face was as cruel as it was joyful. “I see. Good. I was hoping to get a chance to spar with you one last time.”
Oh, no. Oooh, shit.
“Come.” He turned on his heel and stormed from the room, throwing the door open and disappearing out into the corridor.
She shouldn’t follow him.
She shouldn’t. She should sit right down. She wasn’t feeling well, still, and he was about to kick the shit out of her—and then do other things to her. Clearly.
But she was mad. And she wanted him desperately. And she loved him.
So she did the stupid thing.
And followed.
Mordred had never wanted someone so desperately in his life as he watched Gwendolyn the mortal step into the courtyard where he had attempted to train her to fight with a sword. Finally, their lessons would end the way he had wanted them to from the very beginning—the thoughts that had twisted in his head as she had struggled to keep her footing.
Images of her on her knees, lips parted around his length, paying the price for her folly.
On her back in the sand, spread wide, begging him for mercy and for more.
Bent like an animal as he took her for all he was worth.
The woman he loved.
The woman he didn’t trust.
The woman he needed.
She was shaking, her cheeks flushed, doing her best to hide her equal desire as she stepped into the sand circle. She was glowering at him like an angry cat. Feisty but small. She will use those claws of hers if you are not careful. Even a kitten can take out an eye.
He summoned two swords and tossed one into the sand in front of her before vanishing his armor. It would make it more of a fair fight, and, truth be told, he wanted to feel those nails of hers digging into his skin.
“You may surrender at any point, and I will stop.” He spun the blade idly in his hand, watching the moonlight glint off the steel.
“Fuck you.” She picked up the sword, and did her best to take a defensive stance, just as he had taught her. “If you think I’m going to just let you?—”
“Good.” He jumped at her, swinging the blade. She dodged the strike, ducking under his arm. She was moving slower than usual—she was still recovering. But he gave her the time to escape the blow, even if he could have easily swept her legs out and ended their fight then and there.
No, this was about the dance.
This was about their frustrations.
This was about their desire.
Bless her heart, she even tried to attack him, swinging the blade with a furious shout as she sought to open a gash in his chest. He stepped out of range of her swipe. He laughed, a sound that only infuriated her more.
He let her slash for him a few more times before he kicked out one of her feet, sending her staggering, trying to catch her balance. “You will kneel for me. Defiant as it might be. I do hope you glare at me as you are now. I do love you when you are so pointlessly angry.” He could not help but grin.
“You’re such an egotistical piece of shit!” She ran at him, adrenaline clearly fueling her. He let her knock his blade from his hand—the look of shock on her face his opportunity.
He snatched her wrist, twisting it, forcing her own blade from her hand with a yelp before pulling her arm behind her back. With his other arm, he caught her throat in the crook of his elbow and pulled her to his chest, facing away from him. She squeaked and struggled.
