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“You used me. Manipulated me. Dared to twist my affection for you to benefit my sworn enemy. A creature that you sided with against me. I have every entitlement to an…apology.” He leaned his head closer to her ear, scraping his teeth along the skin. She shuddered in his grasp. “If my choice for your method does not please you, by all means…say so. Tell me to stop, and I will stop.”
She shut her eyes, her body still quaking in his grasp. By the Ancients, she was an intoxicating drug. “Fuck you, Mordred.”
“That is, I believe, entirely the plan,” he whispered, before chuckling quietly. “Kneel.”
“No.”
“Good.” He tossed her forward, sending her staggering.
She scooped up her fallen sword and turned to face him, blade at the ready.
He did not bother to retrieve his. He would do this with his bare hands. He stepped toward her. “I want you to fight me. I want to feel you kick me. Struggle. Punch and claw. I want you to scream out your wrath, your anger—for I plan to eke out mine on you in return.”
Her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink as she reacted to his words, her eyes going wide. But still, she remained defiant, even if she was grasping her sword now with trembling hands.
Beautiful. So beautiful.
She hollered in rage and ran at him, making what she realized might be her last desperate attempt. She wanted this to be a brawl, and he would give her a brawl. He stepped aside, and she pivoted—correctly predicting his move. He blinked in surprise, looking down at his shirt, at the cut on his arm that was slowly turning red before oozing with blood.
Mordred laughed. “You have learned.”
Her eyes were wide now for another reason—fear. Did she still not understand that he could no more hurt her than he could tear the sun from the sky? “You—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I didn’t think I’d actually hit?—”
“I am impressed. Forgive me for having treated you gently thus far.” He took a step back and held his arms out at his side. “I will give you one more attempt to strike me down, Gwendolyn. And then you will apologize to me.”
She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking between his eyes, searching for something. It was clear that she understood what was about to happen. That this was her last chance to drop the blade and walk away. To tell him that she did not wish to apologize to him in the fashion he was demanding.
It was her choice.
She dove at him with the blade.
And Mordred could not have been happier.
It was a lot harder to fight when Gwen was so violently turned on. Or turned on violently? She didn’t know which. It didn’t matter. She yelped as Mordred knocked the sword from her hand like it was a toothpick. He had been going easy on her—which was making her even more furious—and it was clear that now that she had drawn blood, the gloves were off.
He wanted to end it.
Well, it was clear he wanted to start it. Their “fight” had only just begun.
The Prince in Iron was terrifying, even in his black linen clothes and without his armor. It made his towering, muscular form no less intimidating. And even if he were just a normal human, he’d have outclassed her instantly.
It didn’t come as a surprise when he fisted her hair in his hand and yanked backward, sending the stinging pain through her scalp.
It didn’t come as a surprise as he nudged the back of her legs with his, sending her toppling to her knees.
He kept his hand fisted in her hair as he watched her, smiling in victory. And she did her best to glower up at him like she was trying to set him on fire with her mind.
“Unlace your dress,” he murmured, his voice raspy. “I want to see your flesh as you lavish me with your sorrow over your actions.”
“F—” She was about to tell him off again but broke off in a yelp as he clenched his fist tighter and tilted her head back. It didn’t hurt. Not really. It did something else extremely dangerous to her instead. I like this. No, I love this. I want him to wrestle me to the ground.
God, she wanted it.
Needed it.
“I will tear it from you if you wish.” Mordred began to undo his trousers—which was an extremely distracting sight. “And you can walk back to your quarters in shredded, stained clothes. I have sent the servants away, but…if you prefer to parade your shame to them, it can be arranged.”
Gwen swallowed the rock in her throat. He’d do it. Letting out a wavering breath, she began to unlace the front of her dress. He drank in the sight of her, his gaze raking over her body like he hadn’t ever seen it before. Or like he was trying to burn it into his memory.
