Page 28 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

She fell asleep on the floor, clinging to his letter. Praying that his words would rearrange themselves to give her some semblance of peace.

She was drowning.

She had spent so much time falling apart, so much time putting herself back together.

She couldn’t do it again.

Six months.

Six months since the midnight revelry.

Six months since the poison attempt

Six months since…

Her heart had cracked in two.

She would never be whole again.

I love you.

Morgana was pregnant, there was no denying it.

Why was the king so pleased?

She was broken again.

He would see her shattered.

A loud crash tugged her from her restless sleep, followed by a quieter curse.

She couldn’t sit up, didn’t care.

A knock at the door.

She didn’t answer.

She clutched at her letter.

If someone was here to end her, at least she would die with his words close to her heart.

The wooden door shifted open just enough for a figure to slide in.

It shut behind them.

The lock slid into place.

Had she been more aware, she would have chided herself for leaving her door unlocked.

Nothing mattered.

She let out a quiet sob, fingers crumbling the letter.

“I love you,” she whispered, praying that he might hear it.

That he might know.

She never got to tell him.

“ Je sais, mon amour ,” the shapeless figure answered. “I know.”

Her heart stuttered.

Guinevere sat up, squinting into the darkness. She rubbed at her eyes, blinked.

Rubbed again.

She couldn’t see past her own hands, her lanterns having snuffed out, the fire in her hearth gone cold.

For the first time since she had received the letter, she let it flutter out of sight. “Is it you?” She asked, trembling. “Or are you another phantom here to break me?”

“Oh, my dove.”

She stifled a sob, pressing a closed fist against her mouth.

Her body shook. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t move.

But that didn’t matter.

She heard his boots moving against the cobbled floor .

One.

Two.

Three.

And he was in front of her. She could see him.

She lifted her hand, but couldn’t bring herself to touch him.

“What have they done to you?” His voice was soft in the air that surrounded her.

It was too good to be true… What if he was a specter?

“Please be real,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes.

His hand moved slowly, so slowly. She watched him move, entranced — enraptured.

His fingertips brushed against her cheek, the slightest touch, the gentlest caress.

She choked out a sob.

“They’ve never touched me before.” She managed to force out around her whimpers.

“I love you, Guinevere.”

I love you

The voice that held her together, that had stitched her very broken soul back up.

The three words she had clung to out of desperate need.

“Tell me something,” she whispered, her own fingers brave enough to press against his jaw. His beard was overgrown, dirty. “Tell me something real.” She tried not to clutch at him, but she could only fight her need for so long. “Something for us.”

He laughed.

And the sound of it alone might have shattered her soul, had his fingers not still been on her cheek.

Holding her together.

“Do you want something kind, or something wicked?” She could see his broken smile. She would recognize it anywhere.

“Kind,” she whispered, rising on her knees to meet his eyes more fully. “Please be kind to me, Lancelot.”

“I paid the carriage driver to take the long way back to the castle, all that time ago.” He was closer. She could feel the heat of his breath on her face. “I wasn’t ready to let you go, even then.”

Her breath faltered, hitching in her throat. “I didn’t know that.”

“I’m very good at keeping secrets, mon amour. ” He moved slowly, gently encircling her wrist with one of his hands, pressing her hand flat against his heart.

“For you alone, my queen.” He whispered, and she could hear the tears tugging at his words.

His heartbeat thrummed the steady rhythm that she had only heard in dreams.

The very beat of her own heart.

He’s alive.

“Lancelot,” Her body was trembling, her voice just as shaky.

“I’m here.”

“Just-” She couldn’t ask for what she needed, she had forgotten how.

“I know,” He whispered.

And she was held.

His arms came around her so slowly, so gently, it might have been a dream, but even her realest nightmares hadn’t been as warm as this.

But as she leaned into him, she pressed her face against a cool slip of metal.

His armor.

“No,” she whispered, pulling back. “Take this off.” She tried to tug at the straps of his armor, but her hands trembled too much. “I can’t-”

He scrambled to obey, clumsier than she had ever seen him.

Chest plate, mail, layers of leather. She tried to help him with the buckles, her fingers fumbling too much to be of any use.

When the last piece fell to the floor with a thud , he was still in his tunic, still covered in dirt and sweat — but suddenly, he was Lancelot .

Her Lancelot.

Dirty. Exhausted. Bruised. His shirt stiff with dried blood. Gaunt cheeks, cracked lips, eyes ringed in shadows.

He’s alive.

His hands hovered by her hips, like he was afraid to touch her without permission, afraid she would float away.

“Please,” Guinevere whispered, blinking back tears.

He pulled her against his chest. Strong, solid, steady .

A whimper escaped from her mouth as she clutched at his ratty tunic.

“You’re so thin.” He whispered into her hair, his hand slipping beneath her shift, not seeking anything more than warmth, the proof of her.

“Guinevere,” He sounded strained, worried.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I almost was.”

She sniffed, brow furrowing. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t a joke.”

She pulled back from the warmth of his chest, scowling at him.

He pressed his lips to the space between her eyebrows, and her heart skittered. “I would die a thousand deaths to look at that ridiculous excuse of a glare, mon amour .”

“Lancelot?” She was holding a fistful of his shirt in her hand, holding him close.

He quirked an eyebrow, leaning forward to press his forehead to her.

“Tell me something wicked.”

Something almost feral flashed in his eyes as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

One of his hands slipped out of her dress, cupping her neck. His thumb stroked her cheek, and she felt like she might fall apart.

He’s alive.

He moved to her right, his breath hot against her ear. “There’s only one man that has had the pleasure of feeling your climax, my queen.” He chuckled, his voice thick with pride — possessive. “And it wasn’t your husband.”

She gasped, a deep flush darkening her cheeks. And… a stirring bloomed to life between her thighs.

A feeling she was certain she would never feel again. “Lance,” she murmured, gently pulling his chin so he was facing her again.

She didn’t ask.

She didn’t wait.

She didn’t wilt.

Guinevere stretched up, pressing her lips to his. He tasted of sweat, of dirt, and of blood.

He hesitated, and she feared he would pull away from her. Her hand slipped up to the nape of his neck, holding him against her.

“Gwen,” He muttered, his lips brushing hers.

“I am here.” She whispered, “I want to be whole again.” But she released the back of his neck.

“Wholeness will take time, my heart.” He pressed a kiss to her nose, her forehead, her cheek.

“Can we-” He inhaled sharply, shaking his head.

“Can we rest?” His breath faltered with a short laugh.

“I have thought of very little, but how you curl into me while you’re asleep.

Of very little, but how I would do anything to hold you one more night. ”

A smile teased the corner of her mouth. She nodded, afraid her voice would betray her.

Lancelot rose, pulling her up with him. He seemed unsteady on his feet, listing gently in one direction as he did. Guinevere led him to the edge of the bed, motioning for him to sit.

Once seated, she knelt down before him, trembling fingers unlacing his boots.

“You don’t have to do that, my queen.” He threaded his fingers through her hair, trying to tilt her gaze up to meet his eyes.

“Let me,” she breathed. “Let me take care of you this time.”

The knight let out a small huff, but did not protest any longer. She rose, standing between his legs. Carefully, she cradled his face between her hands.

Guinevere leaned forward, lips hovering over his.

A question hanging in the air.

Lancelot rolled his eyes with a sigh, but closed the gap between them. He kissed her quickly, a chaste and precious thing.

Shrugging out of his tunic, he shifted up on the bed.

Gwen quickly joined him, sliding underneath the blankets.

His hands were on her almost instantly, pulling her against him, burying his face in her neck.

“Do you know how long I have dreamt of feeling your weight against me?” He whispered against the skin of her neck. “Of one more night where you’re mine?”

“All of them,” she replied, lacing her hand through his tangled hair. “I’m yours in all of them.”