She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. The words were splinters in her throat. “Morgana came.”
He said nothing at first. But she could feel his body go still, the tension bleeding into his fingers. “What did she say?”
Her lip curled. “That I’m a fool. That I’ve ruined Arthur. That I’ve ruinedyou.” She turned to him then, eyes hollow but dry. “She asked what I’d promised you.”
Lancelot’s brow furrowed, but she kept going.
“She asked what I could possibly offer, with my-” Her voice broke. She swallowed it. “She thinks I’m using you.”
He stared at her like she was the last light in a battlefield chapel. Like if he looked away, she’d vanish. “You’re not,” he said.
She looked down. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her shift. “I know.”
And then, before the courage could slip away, she spoke again. Her words were quiet in the hush of the afternoon. “Last night. When Arthur-” Her throat closed again. “I can’t forget it. His hands. His voice. I still feel it, like… like a stain beneath my skin.”
She stood, stepping around him. “I’m just a pawn to them, to this whole damn kingdom.” Her fingers clenched into fists at her side.
Lancelot didn’t speak. He just stepped up behind her, slow and silent, until she could feel the heat of him at her back.
He didn’t touch her.
“Gods,” she dragged her hand through her hair, not yet turning to face him. “Even my body isn’t my own, Lancelot. Every part of me istheirs. Theirs to taunt, theirs to violate, theirs to take.”
“No,” He whispered, his breath warm by her ear. “Guinevere, do you trust me?” His hands hovered by her shoulders.
“Beyond reason,” she stated, turning to face him.
He grabbed her by the arms, stopping her in her tracks. Stepping in time with her, he walked her forward until she was pressed between him and the wall.
For a moment, a flicker of fear, of remembrance, crossed her mind. But his voice crashed through the fog, leaving nothing left to doubt. “We can rewrite the past, dove.” There was a deep rasp to his words.
Her breathing hitched as his hands slowly slid down her arms, clutching at her waist. She expected to freeze. To flinch. But the only thing she felt waswant.“You say the word and we stop,” He mouthed the skin of her neck. “Even if we’re in the middle. You have the power, do you understand?”
She nodded, head falling backwards onto his shoulder.
“Say it, Guinevere.” He nipped at her earlobe. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I understand.” Her voice trembled, but it wasn’t fear that shook her. “Please,”
His hands bunched her gown up effortlessly, dragging it over her hips. In one clean motion, he pulled it off of her completely, tossing it aside. Her hands braced against the wall as he rocked against her.
There was pressure, yes — but no threat.
Just him.
Just this.
Reaching around her, his hand dipped between her thighs,dragging through her already slick heat. “Dripping for me, already?” He grunted, rolling his hips into her again.
“I need-” She rutted against his hand shamelessly, claiming what was hers.
“I’ll tell you what you need.” He withdrew, splaying his hand on her back. “Bend over.” His voice was rough with restraint, but the command landed with devastating precision.
She obeyed without hesitation, pressing her palms flat to the stone wall, arching her back as heat flushed up her chest.
Lancelot groaned behind her. “Look at you,” he murmured, running his hand down the length of her spine. “So ready for me. So goddamn perfect.”
She squeezed her eyes shut as his fingers found her again, teasing now, circling, but never giving her what she craved. “Lancelot,” she gasped.
