Page 49 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

“Lancelot,” she whispered, fingers brushing his jaw.

“Don’t say it.” His words were tight, tension finally finding its way into his shoulders, into his eyes. “Don’t say anything.”

He didn’t set her down right away.

For a moment, he just stood there with her body pressed against his chest. Guinevere could feel his heart thudding against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

When he finally lowered her to the bed, it was too gentle. Like she might break — like he might. He knelt before her, not touching, not looking.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching for him.

He flinched.

Only slightly, but it was enough. Enough to make her hand fall lamely back to the sheets.

“I told you not to say anything.” He was quieter now. There was no venom in his words. His jaw was clenched so tightly, Gwen swore she could see it tremble.

She studied him, the way his shoulders rose and fell like he was weighed down by some invisible anchor.

“I saw it,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I’ve seen you stand silent under his cruelty. I’ve watched the way you manipulate him as his hands seek to violate. But today you-” His breath shuddered. “You looked like you’d fall apart. At the thought of me gone.”

“I would.” Her words were faint, a whisper in the room. “I will .” Tears welled in her eyes again, but this time… she would not break. “I know what it feels like to lose you, Lancelot.”

Her hand found his — this time, he didn’t pull away. “I swear to God, Guinevere. He won’t use me against you again.” Her fingers shook as she curled her hand around his, knuckles white as her grip tightened.

He stilled, but she could still feel the tension humming under his skin. “If you die in that ring, Lancelot, he wins.”

Silence stretched between them, aching and sharp.

“I won’t.” Lancelot’s voice was low, steady. But his hand — his hand was shaking in hers. “I won’t let him use me to break you.”

She ran her hand through his wild curls, tilting his chin up to meet her gaze. His eyes swam with unshed tears, and her breath hitched. “What do we do?” Guinevere asked softly, afraid her voice would betray her.

“I fight, I win .” His hands curled into the fabric at her thighs, head thrown back as he kept her in his sights, looking at her with something that could be akin to reverence.

“You can’t, Lancelot.” She shook her head, cradling his face in her hands. “I won’t let you.”

A rumble started in his chest, escaping as a low growl. “You think I’ll let him present you without a champion? Do you think I’ll let you stand there, alone , while he ridicules you?” His words came out as a snarl, but they only tugged harder on her heart.

“Yes,” she blinked, a tear escaping down her cheek. “I demand it.”

He laughed, but it was not a sound of mirth. It was hollow. Rotten. Worn like ancient armor.

He rose in a single motion — fast, predatory. His eyes locked on hers as if they could pin her in place.

“Demand it?” he repeated, voice low. He gripped her chin, firm but not cruel, dragging her face upward until she couldn’t look anywhere but into him. “You don’t get to make demands of me when you’re the only reason I haven’t burned this kingdom down.”

Her breath caught. His grip wasn’t hurting her — it was anchoring her, like he might fly apart otherwise.

“You don’t get to tell me to stand aside while he strips you bare before the court,” he hissed. “When he accuses you of treason, asks if anyone will absolve you of your sins.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“You think I’ll let him crown that victory with my silence?” His forehead dropped to hers, a soft, shaking contact in the middle of his fury. “No, Guinevere. No. ”

She was torn. She didn’t know whether to close the distance between their mouths, to let him claim her once more. Or to scream at him, to shout until he saw reason.

So she did both.

Her hands fisted in the collar of his tunic, yanking him closer. “You think I want to stand alone?” She hissed. “You think I don’t want you to stand beside me?”

His breath stuttered against her lips, stunned by the heat behind her words. “I want you, Lancelot. Not your sacrifice. Not your blood spilled on that sand while Arthur watches from his throne. ”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just breathed her in like she was the only thing keeping him tethered.

She shoved him weakly, palms flattened against his chest. “I have fought so hard, for so long, to stay standing.” Her voice cracked as she stood. “Don’t make me watch you fall so I can continue to stand alone.”

He caught her wrists, but it wasn’t to stop her — it was to hold on to her like a lifeline. Like she was the only thing that could keep him from breaking. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“I would rather be disgraced,” she whispered. “Mocked. Uncrowned. Killed . I would rather lose everything than step over your body as I take my seat at the throne.”

Lancelot’s grip on her wrists tightened — not cruel, but trembling with restraint. His breath came shallow. And then, low and vicious, “Don’t you dare ask me to live while he parades you like a prize no one claimed.”

Her breath caught. His eyes blazed — wild, beautiful, ruined .

“You think I care about honor? About legacy? I have none. ” His voice rose, teeth bared like a knight gone feral. “I had one thing left. You. ”

She flinched, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of his fury. Of what it cost him to carry it.

“I should’ve burned this kingdom to ash the day he touched you,” he seethed, forehead pressed to hers. “I should have. And now you want me to stand aside and watch him tear you down again? ”

Her silence was answer enough.

His breath trembled, brushing against her lips. “Don’t make me choose between your safety and my pride,” he whispered. “Because I swear to God, Guinevere — I’ll choose you. Every time.”

She shoved at his chest, enough to say stop .

Enough to say you’re not the only one burning .

“Don’t you dare ,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare speak like you get to decide which of us is sacrificed!”

His head snapped back, jaw clenched, eyes wide.

“I have lost everything, Lancelot. I have been used, paraded, touched by a man I would burn out of my skin if I could. And the only thing, the only thing, that kept me from falling to pieces was knowing you were alive.”

Tears stung her eyes again, but they didn’t fall. Not this time.

“You want to protect me? Then live. You want to fight for me? Then stay with me. ” Her hands fisted in his tunic, dragging him closer like she could tether him there with will alone. “You don’t get to leave me again and call it love.”

His mouth parted like he might speak, but no words came.

“You promised me,” she said, barely above a whisper now, but it was a blade to the gut. “You just swore he’d never use you to break me. So don’t you dare hand him the blade.”

His breath punched out of him like she’d driven a dagger into his chest. “Guinevere-”

“No,” she snapped, cutting him off, dragging his mouth down to hers.

She devoured him, and he let her. Let her pour every scream she’d swallowed, every bruise she’d withstood, into the crush of her mouth.

His hands found her hips, dragged her against him like he’d die if there was an inch between them.

Her fingers tore at his hair, his clothes, anything she could reach as if she meant to undo him at the seams.

He lifted her blindly, stumbling until her back met the mattress with a thud that rattled the bones in them both. She gasped, but she didn’t stop. Clawed at the hem of his tunic, tugged it up and over, baring the broad line of his chest so she could drag her nails down it.

“You don’t get to go,” she snarled against his lips. “You don’t get to leave me.”

“I won’t,” he growled. “Don’t ask me to.”

She tore at his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency. “Help me,” she growled, a snarl more than a plea.

“No,” He barked, catching her wrists mid-frantic motion. His grip was iron. His eyes darker than fury. “ You don’t get to tear me apart and expect me to take it. Is this what you want?” He shoved her wrists above her head, pinning them to the bed. “Then listen to me.”

Her breath caught. Her pupils blew wide. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Her hips arched, a silent yes .

“I won’t leave,” he growled, his mouth at her throat, his breath a brand. “I’m not walking out that door, not now, not ever — you are mine . Do you understand me?”

She moaned, writhing beneath him. “Yes. Lancelot…”

“No.” His voice was a whip crack. “You don't get to moan my name like that and then fight me for control.”

“I’m not fighting you,” she rasped, eyes glittering like shattered glass.

“Fucking, finally.” His teeth found the sensitive spot on her throat, alternating between less-than-gentle nips and a brand. He let go of her wrists, gripping ruthlessly at her hips. He turned her over, stomach pressing into the mattress.

A gasp escaped her lips as she felt his hands tearing at the fastenings that held her dress together. “I hate these dresses,” Lancelot sneered, the sound of ripped fabric as loud as their combined breaths. “If it were up to me, you’d wear nothing but my tunics. Nothing but breeches.”

The cool of the air brushed down her spine, followed by his mouth, hot and urgent.

But then it was gone. His weight, his hands — gone . She gasped, twisted to look, but his voice cracked across her like a whip.

“Don’t move.”

She froze.

“Do you know what it does to me? To watch him lord over you like you’re a plaything. To watch him try to control you , and-” His hand slid up her calf, slow and deliberate. “And know that you’ve taken it for my sake .”

She was bared to him, her dress in pieces on either side of her, sleeves still clinging to her arms.

“Lancelot,”

“Quiet,” His palm continued to climb, smoothing over her thigh. His fingers dipped between her legs, her hips rising to meet his touch. “So wet already,” he murmured. “You like it when I take control, don’t you?”