“You should rest,” he said quietly. “I’ll take the floor.”
She hated how much that disappointed her.
“I don’t…” Gwen paused. Started again. “I don’t know what to say to you.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He unstrapped his sword, methodical as always. “What happened this morning… it won’t happen again.”
Her throat went dry.
Not because he said it — but because part of her wanted him to be wrong.
“…Right,” she said, nodding, even though he wasn’t looking at her.
“You’re the queen.”
“You say that like I don’t wake up queen every day, Lancelot.”She snapped back, fire igniting in her veins as he tried to explain away whatever happened between them this morning. “Tell me I’ve let my mind run away with fantasies,” she said, softer now. “And I will never speak of this again.”
She had her eyes cast downwards, couldn’t meet his gaze.
“I swore to only speak the truth.” She could have mistaken his voice for the breeze.
Guinevere reached for him, but her hand hovered in the space between them, empty. Curling her fingers back to her chest, she let out a sigh. “Very well, knight.” She turned her back to him again, pressing her hands into the mattress. “Floor it is.”
They didn’t speak while they waited for the food, the tension in the air growing thicker by the minute. Gwen perched on the edge of the bed, peeling off her boots.
The dusty shoes fell to the floor with a heavy thud as she tried to massage the feeling back to her feet. “God, how do people do this day in and day out?” She muttered, more to herself than to her companion — but he laughed.
“We wear better shoes,” Lancelot answered, kneeling before her. “May I?” He nodded towards her now-bare feet.
“I’m perfectly capable of massaging my own sore muscles,” she said, a little harsher than she intended.
“You can try, but…” His throat bobbed, and she watched as his jaw tensed. Gently, so carefully, he took one of her feet in his hand, pressing his thumbs into the arch.
Gwen had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering. He was right. There was no way she could have eased the achethatproficiently.
“Years on the road…” He mused quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not good for much. But you learn the best ways to ease an aching muscle.” He worked his thumbs down the length of her foot. She pressed the back of her hand against her lips, fighting for self control.
His touch grew lighter, the pressure lessening. Gwen felt the shift, the pause, the tension winding between them like a pulled bowstring.
She lowered her hand from her mouth. “Lancelot,” she warned — though whether it was a warning to him or herself, she couldn’t be sure.
He didn’t look up. Instead, his fingers traced the delicate line of her ankle, feather-light, reverent. “Say the word, and I’ll stop,” he murmured. “I am at your mercy, my queen.”
Guinevere’s breath stuttered, heart thrumming loudly in her chest. Her hand moved of its own accord, trailing down the curve of his jaw. She tilted his chin up. It was everything she could do not to fall headfirst into his piercing eyes.
“I knew,” He whispered into the silence of the room. “That night, I would never be the same.” His eyes sparkled with something she couldn't decipher. “You can try to hide behind a mask, Guinevere — but the woman with fire in her spirit, the woman with rebellion in her eyes? She captured my heart, and all we shared was a dance.”
“What?” She rose, skirting away from his touch. “You’ve known?” Tugging a hand through her ragged locks, she couldn’t decide if she was furious or relieved. “You’ve known this whole time?”
Lancelot stood slowly, as if his movements might make her flee. “Of course I knew.” His voice had dropped lower, darker. “You imprinted yourself on my very soul, highness.”
“You-”
She didn’t finish. His hands were on her before she could complete her thought. Her back hit the wall, and he was there. Pulled together after what felt like ages apart.
His hand found her waist, her jaw, her hair. Like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of her under his skin.
But not his lips.
