Guinevere did not move.
But her lip, just barely, trembled.
“Go,” Arthur stood, facing her with a reddened face. “Go and present the prize to your victor.”
He grabbed her arm as she stood, pressing a dagger into her hand. “Face your champion and make a choice. Him, or you.” He slid the weapon up her sleeve, patting her like one would a petulant child. “Someone’s going to die today, wife. Aren’t you lucky I am allowing you the final say?”
Her heart shuttered in her chest with the command he gave of her.
Arthur expected her to drive this dagger through Lancelot’s heart.
Or through her own.
Any other version of Guinevere would have blanched at his request — hisdemand, but this Guinevere? She took the dagger, nodded, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep her emotions in check.
“Congratulations, Du Lac,” Arthur called from the dais, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Your Queen approaches with your prize.”
Her skirts billowed around her in the breeze as she stepped down off of the platform, forcing herself to walk, when everything inside of her screamed to sprint to him.
As she drew nearer to him, her breath faltered. He leaned heavily on his sword; the tip digging into the ground beside him. His eye was bruised, his lip busted open. Gwen couldn’t tell where the blood ended, and the bruises began.
But his smile?
Radiant.
His hair was matted with gore and mud, pushed back off of hisforehead. And his eyes sparkled. “Hi,” he whispered, the word rough around the edges.
“Hey there,” she replied, fingers trembling around the circlet she was to present him.
“Kneel, knight of Camelot,” she decreed, a thunderous roar washing over them. “That I might present you with your crown.”
“Fuck a crown,” he growled, ripping the golden piece out of her hand and tossing it aside. He staggered forward, forgoing his sword to cradle her face in his hands.
His lips descended on hers, hot and quick, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her fingers flexed at her side, surprise jolting through her.
He tasted like blood, like sand and sweat. His mouth moved against hers, demanding reciprocation,claimingher.
Guinevere whimpered as his tongue traced the steady line of her lip, before claiming the inside of her mouth, too.
She didn’t register the commotion in the arena until he had pulled back. People were shouting, there were jeers and screams, cheering and booing.
All facets of emotions were pouring from the stands as he broke away from her. A delicious grin spread across his face as he released her. “Prêt?”
She didn’t want to nod, didn’t want to risk their cover being blown, so she took a step back, pulling her sleeve up to reveal the dagger Arthur had given her.
“Oh, so it’s to be a duel?” He laughed loudly, yanking the dagger from her sleeve. In a single motion, she was pulled against his back with his hand covering her mouth. “Don’t shout, dove,” He whispered in herear, theatrics taking over.
“Unhand her!” Arthur shouted from the dais, guards readying their weapons.
“I don’t think I will,” Lancelot responded with a grin, pressingthe king’sdagger to Gwen’s throat. “Tell your archers to lower their arrows or your queen’s pretty blood will spill right here with the rest of your knight’s.”
He pressed the dagger into her skin with more force, causing her to gasp beneath his hand. Her eyes watered, not from fearof him— she trusted him explicitly, but from fearforhim.
Her hands clawed at his arm, more for the act than the effort. She could feel the pulse racing beneath his skin, the tremor in his muscles as he held her. He was shaking — whether from blood loss, rage, or the weight of everything riding on this moment. She couldn’t tell.
And yet his voice was steady.
“Lower your arrows,” he called again, louder now, letting his smile slip into something sharper. “Or your queen’s last breath will be your crown’s final echo.”
