Page 24 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Days passed. Maybe weeks. A month? Time didn’t move the right way anymore. Guinevere had lost weight, unable to stomach her meals unless in the presence of others.

She had to keep up appearances somehow.

Arthur demanded more of her. More of her time, more of her input.

More of her body.

It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. She stayed in his bed when he called for her. At least she felt something , even if she was broken.

It’s never like it was with him. It could never be. Arthur’s touch was icy and calculated — no reverence, no love.

He undressed her like it was a chore.

Fucked her like she wasn’t even real.

He whispered in her ears things like “You’re being so good again,” and “What a dutiful little queen you are.”

It disgusted her.

They held a celebration in her honor.

She threw up all that night.

It hurt to stand, to walk, to speak.

Part of her soul was missing, and she would never get it back.

At night, she would wake up and feel his warmth, smell his woodsy scent, and reach for him.

Each time, she found her bed cold.

Empty.

She resented him.

He imprinted himself upon her chambers, and left.

She wished he hadn’t spent that night with her.

She knew that wasn't true.

He came to her in dreams. Held her, whispered sweet nothings into her ear while she clung to him.

She would wake up with the sound of his voice lodged in her throat.

She threw up then, too.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

Each night she fell asleep clinging to his shirt, to the last piece she had of him. She knew one day his scent would no longer linger on the threadbare fabric.

Maybe that would be the day she disappeared, too.

No one made it back from the Grail quest alive.

She didn’t think about him. Pushed him as far from her thoughts as possible.

I love you.

He was dead. He had to be. It was easier that way.

But… she couldn’t think of that either.

She didn’t cry, not anymore.

There were no more tears left for her to cry.

She was a shell of the person she used to be. He had brought her to life, dug her out of her coffin and breathed soul into her.

An icy dread coiled in her gut, a self-loathing that could almost paralyze her.

She fell in love with him.

She let him touch her.

She let him open her world.

She let him love her.

I love you.

And again she was buried, and it was worse now.

Because she had tasted freedom.

She had felt love.

She had been held.

Revered.

Worshipped.

Adored .

If he had never cracked her open, she wouldn’t feel this way.

I love you.

She threw up again.