He smiled — just barely. “I would’ve bathed, had I known an angel might show up at my door.”
She let out the quietest, broken laugh. “I’m no angel.” She pulled back, studying his face. “Lance?” She asked, worrying her bottom lip.
“Yes?” He kissed her forehead.
She reached up, pressing her fingertips into his beard. “Will you kiss me, please?” She felt her hands tremble. “I’m… I’m…” Her voice trailed off, trying to find the words. “I just want to kiss you, Lance.” She stretched up.
But he didn’t meet her. Instead, he tilted her backwards so that her back hit his mattress. He curved into her side, propping himself up on his elbow.
His fingers ghosted her cheek, a soft smile on his lips. With his thumb, he moved her chin upwards, pressing his lips to hers in a quick, chaste motion.
Gwen pouted when he pulled away, a small whine forming in the back of her throat. “Again,” she whispered, breathless now. Lips parted, eyes shining.
He laughed softly — something fragile blooming in his throat. “That was a kiss.” He quirked an eyebrow, a challenge.
“That was pity,” she shook her head. “I want a kiss.”
He groaned, pressing his lips to her forehead, her nose, her cheek. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.” He murmured, lips brushing her skin. “You’re hurting.”
“I’mhealing,” she retorted, fingers finding the edge of his jaw. Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. “You make me feel like… like I belong to myself. I want to bemyselfwith you, Lance. Not his shadows, not his touch.Yours.”
He cupped her face and leaned in, slowly, cautiously. She had the chance to turn.
She didn’t.
She stretched up, pressing her mouth against his.
And he kissed her.
His lips moved against hers like he knew the motions already, like she was an extension of him. His hand curled in her hair, soft, claiming.
Her fingers found the nape of his neck, pulling his body flush against hers.
Lancelot gave a half-hearted noise of protest, but he didn’t pull back.
She wasn’t sure how long they lay like that, lips moving together in a fury, hands caressing. He was stitching her back together with each featherlight touch of his fingers.
His thumb brushed along her cheek, and he pulled back quickly. “Why…” Her voice trailed off. She was crying. “I’m sorry,” she tried to hide.
He held her steady. “There’s no need to apologize, Guinevere.” He kissed a tear from the corner of her eye. “I will always pick up the pieces.” He adjusted, settling on his side. “Sleep,mon cœur,no one will touch you tonight.”
Lancelot pulled the blankets up over her shoulders, settling in beside her. There was distance between them. He was careful not to crowd her.
She reached back, tugging on his wrist. A silent plea.
It was with a smile that he moved closer to her, curling around her like a cloak, holding her together.
19
“Up, up, up, up up up.” His voice broke through her sleep, hands shaking her gently. “Up, my queen.” She tried to blink away the sleep, but everything about her current situation lent itself to nestling back into the warmth of the bed.
“Not yet,” she mumbled, reaching for his wrist.
“You’ve got to get up, highness.” She heard the rising panic in his voice.
“Lance?” She sat up, rubbing her tired eyes. “Are you well?”
“No,mon amour, I am not.” He took her by the hands, dragging her from his bed. “I am due to be knighted in fifteen minutes, and the king’s wife is asleep in my bed and wearing my clothing.” In the dimly lit room, she watched as he pulled a hand through his hair. “I am far from ok, dear.”
