Had marked her in every way he could have.
And now he stood at her back, expression stoic, but his gaze burned — daring someone to question the flush on her chest, the wreckage of her braid, the way her breath hitched every time she shifted in her chair.
Morgana’s gaze flicked from Guinevere’s mouth to her barely settled skirts, then to Lancelot’s loose belt and pinkened ears. She raised a brow.
Sipped her wine.
Said nothing.
Not yet.
The music lulled. A final toast rang out — something about the future, about legacy, about the gods smiling upon the new blood of Camelot.
The queen barely heard it. Her pulse was still in her throat, her skin fevered under her silks. Her wineglass trembled faintly in her grip each time she lifted it.
Morgana intercepted her on the way to the solar.
Just a flick of her wrist — elegant, precise — and Guinevere dismissed her handmaidens. Lancelot had been sent ahead under the pretense of checking the fire. He’d kissed her knuckles before leaving, but his mouth had lingered too long. His eyes had promised more.
Morgana’s smile was all silk and thorns. “You’re flushed, sister.”
Gwen didn’t slow. “Wine.”
“Mm.” Morgana fell into step beside her, a step too close. “Was it wine that loosened your braid? Or the knight who buckled his sword on backwards?”
Guinevere kept her chin high. “If you have a point, I suggest you make it quickly.”
“Oh, I never rush. But you might want to. You’re… dripping.”
That stopped her. Just long enough for Morgana to circle.
“I don’t begrudge you,” the woman said softly. “Truly. I’d have done the same in your place. He’s beautiful when he’s angry.” Her gaze flicked down to Guinevere’s bodice. “And possessive.”
Guinevere’s hands clenched. “If you came to lecture me-”
“Oh, no.” Morgana’s smile sharpened. “I came to remind you that power is only power when you wield iton purpose. You could survive this… if you stop being ruled by hunger.”
Guinevere stepped into her space, chin lifted. “You think I’m not in control?”
“I think youhopeyou aren’t. I think you like the fall.” Morgana leaned in, her voice a purr. “Just be careful whose arms you land in.”
Then, before she could reply, Morgana stepped back with a curtsy that bordered on mockery, and disappeared into the corridor like smoke.
42
The door slammed behind her. Hard enough to make the candles flicker.
Guinevere tore the circlet from her head and flung it across the room. It clattered against the stone like a thrown gauntlet.
“I should have struck him,” she hissed, voice shaking with fury. “When he lifted that child and called it holy, I should have stood and screamed-”
“And damned yourself,” Lancelot snapped, turning from his spot by the window. “Yes. That would’ve fixed everything.”
She whirled on him. “Because fucking me in the hallway was the more appropriate reaction?”
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “I remembervery enthusiasticconsent from you, dear. Don’t make me sound like him.”
“I would never,” her voice was quieter now, but shaking. “Don’t youdaretwist my anger into shame.”
