I pushed the muslin of her shift into the folds of her lips as she gasped in shock. I could already feel the velvety wetness that was covering her. Slipping my index finger into her heat only slightly, I watched as she bucked beneath me.
"You're trembling." My voice dropped lower as my fingers moved in a small, deliberate circle atop her hard little nub.
Take her! Fuck her! Make her surrender to us!The dragon was relentless.
"I'm afraid," she admitted.
"Good." A dark smile curved my lips. "Fear keeps us honest, doesn't it, little temptress?"
My thumb pushed harder against her, and her hips jerked forward, pressing against my hand in a motion that thrilled me. I pushed the muslin aside and slid my finger up that narrow slit, her juices covering me as I felt for that slip of skin within her that thrilled both the dragon and me.
"I am the only man you will ever know."
The words tore out of me before I realized I’d spoken them aloud.
I bolted upright, chest heaving, the weight of the dream clinging to me like wet linen. For a heartbeat, I half-expected to see her there at the foot of my bed—white hair plastered to her skin, eyes wide with that thrilling mix of innocence and defiance.
But I was alone.
The chamber was dark, moonlight spilling through the narrow window. The air was heavy and cold. The sheets twisted around my legs, damp with sweat, as though I’d fought an invisible battle in my sleep. The embers in the hearth glowed faintly, offering no real warmth, just the memory of fire.
I dragged my hands over my face, the rasp of my beard rough beneath my palms.
Another dream.Just another fucking dream of the white-haired girl.
The tenth—no, it was more than that. Each one sharper than the last. The scent of lavender in her hair. The taste of water on her skin. The faint tremble of her lips beneath my fingers. The cool silk of her skin against mine.
Even now, with the world returned to stillness, I could feel her. The phantom press of her body against my hands. The slick heat of her, seared into my memory like a brand.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, breathing hard.
These dreams were no mere fantasies—they were invasive. Consuming. They left me wanting. Unsatisfied.Weak.
And worst of all—they left me haunted by a woman who might not even exist.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
-LANCE-
Ifound Arthur in his chamber, hunched over his writing table like a man possessed.
Candle wax pooled across an open ledger, long abandoned. Rain battered the windows, echoing the storm behind his eyes.
Maps of Logres blanketed the table, villages marked and crossed out in his bold hand. Crumpled parchments lay at his feet—lists of names, scrawled with cryptic notations I couldn’t decipher from where I stood.
“You summoned me, Arthur?” I asked, unsettled by his disheveled state. Arthur rarely let anyone see him like this—even me.
He didn’t answer immediately. He didn't even look up at me. Instead, he finished whatever it was he was writing, then leaned back in his chair as he picked up a goblet and swirled the contents, his eyes fixed on the storm. Lightning lit the harsh lines of his face.
"Lance," he said finally, his voice rough with exhaustion. He gestured toward the maps with a trembling hand, his fingers lingering over the northern territories where red ink markedvillages like wounds across the parchment. "The Northern Rebellion is growing stronger."
I stepped closer to the table, studying the careful notations scattered across the maps. Villages circled in crimson, trade routes marked with black X's, and names I recognized—lords who had once sworn fealty to Arthur now listed among the suspected rebels. But why he suspected them remained a question. There had been nothing concrete proven so far—no intercepted messages, no witnesses to treasonous meetings, no clear evidence of sedition beyond whispered rumors and the natural discontent that festered in any kingdom where magic was forbidden to all but the crown. The red marks on these maps seemed to multiply with each passing week, spreading like a plague across territories that had once been Arthur's most loyal strongholds.
I studied the familiar names more carefully, recognizing lords who had fought beside us in the early campaigns, men who had bled for Arthur's vision of a unified realm. Now their estates were marked with the same crimson that denoted confirmed enemies of the crown. The progression troubled me—how quickly suspicion had transformed into assumed guilt in Arthur's increasingly isolated mind. I had to imagine this was simply another manifestation of Arthur's growing paranoia.
“But that’s not what keeps me up tonight.”
He turned then, and I caught a flicker of something I hadn’t seen since our youth—before the crown had hardened him. He hesitated, fingers drumming the goblet’s rim. His shoulders were tight beneath the royal mantle, jaw clenched. I saw the war behind his eyes—guarded instinct battling with the need to speak, to ease whatever troubled his mind. Arthur was, by rule, a private man. He only emptied the contents of his mind in the direst of circumstances. The silence dragged, thick with what he wouldn’t say, broken only by the rain against the glass and thedistant thunder. Arthur had always chosen his words carefully. Tonight, they weighed on him more than usual.
