“Very well,” she whispered, the word barely escaping her lips as she let her hand fall to her side, as if she could do nothing but surrender to the quiet weight of the moment.
His hand hovered just above her shoulder, and the sensation of his fingers near her skin sent a ripple of warmth through her. He took a lock of her hair, his fingers threading through the strands with a care that almost felt too soft, too intimate. Slowly, he wound the curl around his finger, the move so gentle, so deliberate, she thought she might have imagined it.
The world seemed to fall away with that touch. The air between them thickened, stretching out the seconds until they felt like hours. Gwen could feel her pulse in her throat, could feel her breath coming a bit too fast. Every slight movement of his fingers made the silence heavier, the space between them too charged to ignore.
And yet, neither of them moved.
His hand gently grasped her hair, brushing it off of her shoulder. His fingers dusted across the back of her neck, and her breath hitched.
For a man who seemed so sure of himself the day prior, she felt his hands tremble as he fiddled with the ties on the back of her dress.
“Is this… Is this acceptable?” He asked, voice raw with something untamed. Gwen couldn’t answer, couldn’t find her voice, so she just nodded.
His fingers tugged at the laces on her back, gently unraveling the ribbons from her dress. She felt the cool morning air on her back as the dress unwound.
And then —
The warmth of another’s touch, light as a feather. Fingers danced tenderly up the curve of her spine, playing a staccato song along her skin.
“Lance?” She breathed, the name barely audible in the charged air around them.
“Yes?” His breath was hot on her skin, as though his lips hovered just inches from her throat.
From where her king had laid a claim on her hours before.
“I-”
He was practically panting against the skin of her neck. “Yes?” He asked again.
“Don’t leave.” She stepped out of his reach, away from his breath.
“Never.”
She couldn’t face him, couldn’t turn to look at the result of her actions. “I’ll need help with a clean dress in a moment.”
“I’ll be here, my queen.”
She hustled to her dressing room, grabbing the first dress she could find. She let her rumpled dress drop to the floor and quickly stepped into the plain gown. As she took in the dress, she realized she didn’tactuallyneed assistance. This dress hung loosely, with no ties or clasps.
Feeling foolish, Gwen looked around the room, searching for something that she could ask for help with… she would feel quite daft if she didn’t need help, after all.
She settled on a pair of sandals with a tight lace.
Could she do it on her own? Probably…
Would the knight-to-be that sat outside her door promise to offer her more confusing, lingering touches if she asked him for help?
The chances of that were just as likely.
He was just on the other side of this door, and he was anticipating her needs. She might as well let him help…
“Oh, sire?” She called, trying to keep her voice even. “Help me with my shoes?” The sandals dangled from her fingers, a gentle smile gracing her features.
She could be regal — diplomatic. That was her calling.
Her lot.
A sharp look flashed over Lancelot’s features, eyes narrowing as he followed her movement. “Of course, your grace.” He bowed at the waist, waiting for her to take a seat.
