Arthur descended toward her, each step deliberate.
"You came for my throne," he said, voice echoing off dream-stone walls.
"I want nothing from you." Her words carried heat, conviction. "Not your throne. Not your kingdom."
"Liar."
He reached her, caught her face between his hands, and kissed her with a possessiveness that sent dark satisfaction curling through her—I could feel her attraction toward him, the need he instilled within her. She should have pushed him away. Instead, her hands fisted in his tunic, dragging him closer.
Their clothing dissolved the way dreams do—one moment dressed, the next bare skin on bare skin. Arthur bore her down, the throne room floor becoming silk sheets, stone becoming softness. He hovered above her, golden and crowned, and everything I despised.
Then he spread her thighs and pushed inside her.
In the waking world, she moaned.
The sound punched through me like a blade through armor. I stood frozen beside her bed, hand still pressed to her temple, the other gripping her wrist. Her hips shifted beneath the linens. Another soft sound escaped her parted lips. She arched her back, moaning as her dream mind felt him entering her repeatedly.
This was not the first time I had invaded her dreams. Nor was it the second. Actually, I wasn't certain what the number was. All I did know was that I was supposed to be filling her mind with thoughts of the rebellion—how Arthur's tyranny choked the realm, how magic deserved freedom, how the old ways called for restoration, bla bla bla.
The rebellion had set its sights on Lioran as someone who could rally the North, someone who could serve as a mascot of sorts. And if he continued to excel in the Shadow Trials, that only cemented the rebellion's desire to see Lioran as the paragon of the rebellion.
Little did they know Lioran possessed a cunt instead of a cock.
Gods, the shock when I'd first slipped into her dreams and witnessed her shed that illusion like snakeskin. A woman masquerading as a knight, playing at Arthur's games with ice magic and violet eyes that haunted me even in waking. I should have reported it to the rebellion leaders immediately. Should have brought this intelligence to them and watched them scramble to adjust their plans.
Instead, I kept Guinevere's secret locked behind my teeth.
Mine alone to know. Mine alone to savor.
As for my actual purpose here—convincing her subconscious to join our cause—well. Time enough for that. No need to rush. Yes, it was true that I'd visited her sleeping mind on many occasions now and hadn't breathed a single word about rebellion or resistance.
The truth was: it was far more interesting to simply sit back and watch her dreams stretching out before me.
In the dream, Arthur drove into her with renewed vigor, and she cried out, nails raking down his back.
She writhed beneath my hand, breath coming faster. Heat crawled up my spine. What a gloriously randy creature she was.The last dream I'd witnessed, Lancelot had bent her over a table in the war room, buried himself deep while she bit her own wrist to muffle her screams. Before that, some nameless knight I hadn't recognized, taking her against the stable wall.
Always Arthur's men. Always the enemy.
Perhaps someday she would dream about me—Peep, her owl.
Arthur's hand closed around her throat, not squeezing but possessing. "Say it," he commanded. "Tell me who you belong to."
"No one," she gasped. "I belong to—"
My gaze traveled down the line of her neck to her heavy breasts, which were thrust against the thin fabric of her shift, her nipples hard. My eyes traveled lower still—to her thighs—to the way she was spreading them, lifting her hips as if aching to be filled.
Well, goodness. How was I meant to pass up such a thing?
But Arthur was already fucking her in dreams I had invaded, and some primal part of me howled against it.
My free hand moved before conscious thought could intervene. I pushed back the hem of her shift, revealing pale legs. Then I pushed it even higher—to her thighs. And higher still, until I could see the thatch of white hair on her mound. My mouth began to salivate, needing to taste her more than anything. Instead, my fingers found the warmth of her cunt.
I ran my index finger down her slit, and it came back glistening. She was wet.
For him.For Arthur, even in sleep.
Ugh. Quite disappointing, really.
