Page 21 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

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.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered against his skin, voice coming unraveled on the last word.

“Here, mon amour .” He muttered into her hair, one hand cradled the back of her head, the other splayed wide across her back, holding her steady. “You come here.”

They stood like that for a long while, wrapped in silence, wrapped in each other. She let herself be held, let the tears fall. His breath was warm against her hair, his body solid and real and safe .

Eventually, he guided her toward the bed, but didn’t lie down until she did. He stayed beside her, on his side, facing her.

His thumb skirted gently over her cheekbone, a touch so faint she wondered if she had imagined it. “You dug me up too late.” She whispered around the knot of grief in her throat.

“What?” His voice was so soft, she could feel the heat of his hand hovering just above her cheek. “No, no. Just in time, Guinevere.”

“I have been buried under the weight of being his queen. I didn’t know what it was like to breathe fresh air.” She was fighting against sobs now, fingers clenching against his bare chest. “You dug me up too late. I…” Her breath hitched. “I will never be free.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. His fingers clutched softly at her cheeks, as though anything sudden would cause her to detonate. “You are free,” He breathed, and she felt her body shake with tremors she couldn’t control. “I will spend my life fighting for your freedom, Guinevere.”

“Kiss me,” she rasped, swiping tears off of her face.

“No, love.” He pressed his lips to her nose. “Not like this.”

She shook her head, tears falling freely now, sliding down the bridge of her nose and onto his skin. “His hands-”

She felt him tense beneath her. She prayed he wouldn’t leave.

“I can’t-” A gasp. “I feel so dirty.” She clenched her eyes shut, couldn’t look at him. “I feel his hands on me. Lance, please.”

He didn’t cave, arms pulling her to him, crushing her against his skin. She whimpered as he ran his hands through her hair. “Please,” she pleaded with him, stretching to press her lips to his throat. “I need you.”

He shushed her softly, continuing to smooth her hair.

She lay curled on her side, trembling still, tears drying sticky on her cheeks. Lancelot pressed a kiss to her temple, then shifted, untangling his limbs from hers. She made a soft noise of protest, her fingers brushing his arm.

“I’m not leaving,” he whispered, touching her cheek. “Just a moment. Stay warm.”

He crossed the room in the hush of candlelight, the chill slipping in around the stone walls. She watched him move — barefoot, bare-chested — toward the trunk near the hearth. He crouched and rifled gently through his things, then stood with something soft and light in his hands.

It was a tunic. His tunic.

He came back to her with quiet purpose, kneeling beside her on the bed. “Gwen,” he said softly, holding it out like an offering, “will you let me?”

Her throat bobbed. She nodded.

She sat up, watching as his fingers trembled above the ties on her shoulders. His usually deft touch struggled with the knots, cursing quietly under his breath.

The gown slipped down, pooling around her waist, but his eyes did not leave hers. When he removed the dress, it felt like he was peeling back a layer of hurt.

His jaw tensed, eyes traveling to her rib cage. She tried to follow his gaze, but his fingers stopped her, holding her in his sights.

With a gentle smile, he pulled the tunic over her head. It was soft and warm, sleeves coming past her hands, the hem fell to her thighs. It was entirely too big.

It was perfect.

It smelt like him.

Without thinking, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around the knight that knelt before her.

It took him a minute to recalibrate, but he followed suit, holding her close to him.

He sank into her arms, his body curving to fit the shape of her grief.

One hand found the small of her back, the other came up to cradle the back of her head again, as if he could hold her together by sheer will alone.

“You smell like smoke and ash,” she whispered into his neck, her voice ragged.

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 stre tched 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’m healing ,” 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 be myself with 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 c?ur, 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.