Arthur’s arm slid around her waist the moment they stepped through the threshold of the hall, his palm resting just below her ribs. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” he murmured into her ear, breath hot and far too familiar.
Gwen swallowed the bile crawling up her throat. “Tired, that’s all.”
“A queen’s life is full of burdens,” He mused, grip tightening fractionally. “Tonight, I would have you ease mine.”
Her stomach dropped.
When they reached the royal chambers, he opened the door and gestured for her to enter first.
She did.
The room was dim. The fire had been lit. The sheets on the bedhad been turned down. Every small thing was a herald of what was to come. “I’ll join you shortly,” Arthur said, moving to the hearth. “Go on. Make yourself comfortable.”
The king undressed leisurely. Spoke of nothing. His voice droned on about the knighthood, about Camelot’s legacy, about her beauty. But she didn’t hear it. Not really.
And when he finally came to the bed, slid in beside her, and pulled her against him, she went still.
His hands roamed.
She didn’t move.
Not when his mouth pressed to her shoulder. Not when his fingers slipped past the hem of her night gown. She lay frozen, staring past him at the stone ceiling, unmoving. The only part of her that reacted was her heart — thudding, racing, screaming in her chest.
Once sated, he stilled, drifting into the soft, greedy sleep of a man who believed he had claimed what was his. He curled around her possessively, his hand coming to cup her breast as he breathed heavily against the back of her neck.
A tear escaped across the bridge of her nose, she was trapped.
18
She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, silently begging him to move, praying for an opportunity to slip away.
Eventually, the king turned over in his sleep, and Gwen took the moment, slipping away into the night like a wraith.
She didn’t bother with shoes, her bare feet padding across the cobbled floor as she pulled a shawl tighter around her shoulders. The chill of the night seeped into her bones as she fought back a sob.
She didn’t know where she was going until her feet brought her to a door.
His door.
She didn’t knock at first. Just… stood there.
What was she doing?
But her fingers lifted on their own, rapping softly on the door.
Once.
Twice.
The door pulled open before the third knock.
Lancelot stood there, shirtless, hair tousled, blinking the sleep from his eyes. But when he saw her, his stature straightened. “Guinevere-”
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her eyes were already filling.
He reached for her. “What happened?” he whispered, stepping back to let her in. Gwen shook her head, her bottom lip trembling.
She was in his arms, burying her face against his chest.
