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And she’d be grateful for anything at this point.
Like her life. She wasn’t dead. Mordred wasn’t executing her. He was just keeping her prisoner. What was she expecting? To be welcomed back with open arms like she had never done anything wrong? To have him just laugh off the fact that she was protecting Grinn?
No, this made sense. This made perfect sense. And it was about as forgiving as she could expect him to be. But it was stillshit.
Lying down on her side, she shut her eyes and let herself cry.
It wasn’t like she had much else to do.
SEVENTEEN
Galahad felt his heart hitch in his chest. He had wished for three hundred years to have a single moment again with the woman he loved. He cared not if Lancelot used this moment of weakness against him.
Zoe’s eyes were filled with tears as he approached her. “My knight. My dear, sweet knight.”
He fell to one knee before her, his throat too tight to form words. He bowed his head, fighting back his own urge to cry.
Her arms draped around him in a gentle embrace. Her touch was too much for his resolve, and he felt his tears escape and streak down his cheeks.
“How I have missed you,” she whispered to him, her lips pressing to the top of his head. “How I prayed in that cold darkness that you were well. It brings me such joy to see you again.”
Carefully, as though she were a fragile wisp of smoke in a breeze, he wrapped his own arms around her. Though he was certain it was not the case, he feared that she was only an illusion—a dream that might shatter with first light, or that she might simply dissipate if he held her too tightly. “My love…”
He was exposed, turning his back to Lancelot. If the Knight in Silver were heartless, he could easily use the moment to his advantage, even with Gawain and Bors waiting for orders. But all three of his kin seemed content to let him have this exchange.
One he thought would never come again.
After basking in the bliss of the moment for as long as he could, he stood and caught her lips with his. His heart ached, both broken and overfull at the same time. Broken, for he knew what was inevitably to follow. When he ended the kiss, he stroked his fingers over her cheek, brushing away the tears that had slipped free from her as well. “Come with me to the keep. Mordred has extended his hospitality to you. You would be our guest.”
She smiled in the way that one does when it is both in gratitude and in apology. “You know I cannot. The Prince in Iron must fall. His reign must end. You know this.”
Yes. He supposed that was true, however much it brought him grief. His relationship with Mordred was…complex, to say the least. “You know I cannot stand against him.”
“Yes. I do. And I would not ask you to do so.” She placed her hand on Galahad’s chest over where she knew the embedded crystal lived—that leash that kept him tethered to the prince, no matter his opinion. “Must we always find ourselves caught betwixt such warring souls? Will he not release you?”
“You know what the answer would be, were I to ask him.” He stroked her dark hair, loving how it curled about his fingers as though caught adrift in water. How he missed her.
“Perhaps his heart has changed.”
He smiled faintly. “Perhaps it has. I shall ask again.” It was true—Mordred was enamored of the young elemental from Earth. Despite her entanglement with the demon, it was clear that the Prince in Iron did not have the heart to reject Gwendolyn outright for it. If he could coax Mordred to take pity on the young woman, perhaps he would find it to release Galahad from his enslavement and allow him to be free to be with his own love.
But Mordred did not have a penchant for putting empathy above duty.
So, while there was a glimmer of hope within Galahad’s heart that perhaps things had changed…he did not have much faith.
And there was still another matter to deal with.
He kissed his love once more, savoring it, before turning to face Lancelot. “I thank you for allowing me that time.”
Lancelot nodded. “You would do the same for me.”
Yes. He would have. He stepped into the clearing and put his hand on the hilt of his blade. “I have been ordered to take you to the keep. Alive.”
“Well, I suppose that last bit is somewhat a relief.” Lancelot smirked. “I refuse to go peacefully.”
“Very well.” He drew his sword. “Then I shall request a duel between us to settle the matter.”
“What, you will not leverage your greater numbers?” Lancelot drew his own blade.
