Page 41 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Guinevere didn’t cry when Morgana left. She sat still for a long time, letting silence drape over her like a shroud. The fire in the hearth had gone to embers, but she didn’t call for wood.

Didn’t move.

The sheets still smelled like him. Him and sickness. Shame clung to her skin like sweat.

She touched the bodice of her gown, anchoring herself in something tangible. Then her gaze drifted lower — her belly, flat and useless. A kingdom’s worth of pressure, and nothing to give. Nothing except what they took.

She’d never felt more used .

When the door creaked open, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t turn. She knew the sound of his step, knew how carefully he closed doors when she was asleep.

“Guinevere?” Lancelot’s voice was soft, a rasp still warm from the chill outside. “I knocked.”

She didn’t answer. Just sat there in her shift, knees drawn to her chest, eyes locked on the flame’s slow death.

He came to her side. Dropped to one knee like a knight before his queen, but touched her like a man before his ruin. His thumb brushed her jaw, hesitant, reverent.

“What happened?” he asked.

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 ruined you. ” 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 is theirs . 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 was want. “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.

“No,” he said, firm, his hand still splayed on her lower back. “You don’t beg. You receive. ”

She heard his belt clatter to the floor, along with everything else he had strapped to his hips. The clatter of boots being haphazardly kicked off. “All right?” He whispered, his erection pressing against her backside as she waited, displayed before him.

“Always.” She did her best not to moan.

He pushed into her with one sure, slow stroke. Her body clenched around him instantly, the stretch of him as shocking as it was exquisite. Her forehead dropped to the cool stone. “Gods-”

“That’s it,” he grunted, gripping her hips tightly. “Take it. Every inch. Let me replace him. Let me rewrite it.”

He moved in deep, deliberate thrusts — measured at first, letting her adjust, letting her want . One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back gently so he could kiss along her neck. “You’re mine, Guinevere. Not his. Never his.”

Her breath came ragged. “Say it again,” she choked out.

“You’re mine. ” He growled it into her skin, his rhythm quickening. “This body is mine to worship. To protect. To pleasure. Always. ”

Something inside her cracked, and she moaned, the sound primal and raw. It wasn’t just lust. It was freedom . For the first time in days, in years , she felt clean.

“Harder,” she rasped.

He pulled her back flush against his chest, one hand coming up to knead the skin at her breast. He tweaked her nipple between thumb and forefinger, drawing a hiss from her. “More,” she was begging, “Please.”

He obliged.

His hips slammed into hers with a force that made her gasp. Not in pain, but in something wild — something righteous . Her nails scraped against the stone, but she didn’t care. Not when each thrust drove deeper, not just into her body but into that hollow place where Arthur had left rot behind.

“You’re not a pawn,” Lancelot snarled, voice breaking with reverence and rage. “You’re a gods-damned queen .”

She sobbed. Not from sadness — from the unbearable weight of being seen .

“Say it,” he panted, his hand sliding up her front to grip her throat, not to restrict, just to hold . To anchor her. “Tell me who you belong to, Guinevere.”

“I-” Her voice caught, and then shattered like glass. “I belong to me.”

“Damn right,” he growled, and his hand left her throat to grab her waist as he drove into her, hard enough to make her cry out. Her legs trembled beneath her, but she didn’t fall. He held her together.

She came with a sob, her body locking down around him. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t silent. It was violent , like exorcising poison, like tearing off chains.

It was religion .

And he followed, barely a heartbeat after, choking her name like a prayer against her shoulder, buried so deep in her she could feel him everywhere.

They stood there, wrapped together, for an eon. His hands moving gently over every curve of her body in reverence. The only word spoken was her name, whispered into the evening air.

A whine crept up her throat, unbidden, as he slipped out of her. She felt a rumble of laughter in his chest, his lips against her cheek. “Sit, dove.” He guided her towards the chaise in her room, helping her to settle.

Guinevere didn’t ache when he disappeared into the adjoining room, not this time. This time, she knew he was leaving for her. When he returned with a cloth, her cheeks heated as he drew nearer. “Embarrassed?” He teased, gently nudging her legs open.

“No,” she answered, a little too quick. “Just new.”

A low sound came from his throat as his brow furrowed. He pressed a featherlight kiss to her hip bone as he cleaned up the remains.

Carelessly tossing the rag aside, Lancelot climbed up into the lounge with her, pulling her tightly against him.

She lay on her back, tucked into his chest as he propped himself up on an elbow. “I’m sorry.” His eyes sparkled with an emotion she couldn’t quite place.

“What?” She pressed her hand against his cheek. “Sorry, why?”

He wore a sad sort of smile, shaking his head.

His curls fell into his eyes, framed his face.

He was a god, chiseled from smoke and stone and laying here next to her.

“I love you,” she whispered, her own grin tugging at her cheeks. “No matter what.”

“No matter what.” He ducked his head, kissing her softly. “Propriety be damned.”