Her posture had shifted entirely, with no trace of the stiff masculinity of Lioran. She moved like someone shedding armor not just from her body but from her soul. Fluid, certain. Whole.
A transformation, yes—but not a disguise revealed.
A truth, uncovered.
My chest tightened. I forgot to breathe.
This was no spell of glamour or deception.
This washer.
And everything I thought I knew shattered like glass.
I pressed myself harder against the stone wall, willing my body to still, to vanish into shadow. But it was no use—the truth before me struck like a sword through the ribs.
And then it dawned on me, in all its horrible reality.
The silver-white hair. The violet eyes. The same haunting features Arthur had described with reverent awe more times than I could count. The mysterious woman who had drawn Excalibur from the stone—who had shattered his certainty, his identity—was standing right here, in this chamber. Not in some distant, enchanted grove. Not across the sea or hidden in fae glamour.
She had beenhereall along.
Disguised as Lioran. In Camelot. At my side. Under my command.
A soundless gasp tore through me, my heart pounding so violently I feared she might hear it echoing off the stone walls. Arthur had dispatched search parties, searched the castle numerous times, and spent sleepless nights haunted by her—a woman he had seen only briefly but whose face he could not forget.
And now I could well understand, because I could not forget it either.
Suddenly, everything made sense. Every strange flicker I’d felt in Lioran’s presence, the magnetic pull between us, the confusion that gnawed at my gut every time our eyes met. I'd never been bewitched. I'd beenright. My instincts had seen through the illusion long before my mind allowed it.
He was never a man.
Shewas never Lioran.
My body had known the truth before my reason did.
She reached up and began to unfasten the clasps at her collar, peeling off the knight’s uniform with slow, deliberate care. Garments fell away one by one—the padded vest, the linen undershirt, the braies—each piece discarded with unconscious grace until nothing stood between her and the fading light except skin and shadow.
I nearly forgot to breathe.
Her body was not the soft, delicate form idolized in courtly portraits. No—this was the body of a warrior, forged through years of discipline and trial. Lean muscle carved along her arms and thighs. She was strength and beauty intertwined, the divine contradiction of a woman built not to be shielded but to wield power of her own.
Every line, every curve awakened something in me I couldn't name—desire, awe, terror. Not because I feared her, but because something in me recognized her—the same part of me that had been drawn to her from the beginning. And that was when I realized another truth—I’d never wanted Lioran removed from the trials owing to his—toher—diminutive size; that had just been the excuse I fed myself. No, the truth was that I’d been attracted to her from the beginning, and that attraction had felt so wrong I’d wanted her removed from the trials so I would no longer be tempted. Because I must have known deep inside me that this was no passing infatuation. And it had never been about confusion—my body had recognized the truth very early on.
Another horrifying truth was crystallizing before me: that this woman was the very same woman who’d unmade Arthur.
And now—perhaps—she would unmake me.
It was then that I remembered she was standing there, completely nude. Almost immediately, my male brain began to usurp my logic. Because she was beautiful—every curve, everyline of her body. Her waist was narrow, and her stomach taut and lean. My eyes moved up to her breasts, which appeared heavy and round, large for such a slight woman.
My mouth started to water as I imagined taking her nipples, which were as pink as a rose, between my lips and sucking them until they pebbled and grew hard. The moonlight streaming through the narrow window caressed her skin, highlighting the faint scars that told stories of survival and determination—badges of honor that enhanced her beauty rather than diminished it. I found myself mesmerized by the contradictions embodied in her form: delicate yet deadly, soft yet unyielding.
I knew I should look away. Every fiber of honor in my body screamed that I should grant her privacy, regardless of her deception. Yet I remained frozen like a man under a spell, simultaneously sickened by my own voyeurism and unable to tear my gaze from the revelation unfolding before me. I had to close my eyes for a moment just to gain control of myself, just to try to talk myself into keeping my eyes closed so I could afford her her privacy.
Yet I knew I could not, for I was nowhere near that strong.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
-LANCE-
