Her jaw tensed. "The sword doesn’t agree." Then she took a deep breath. "Lance—Lancelot—"
Perhaps it was my name on her tongue used so carelessly again, but before she could say another word, I felt something within me snap—all the anger, the confusion, the hurt, the need—all of it consumed me at once like a lightning bolt surging through the sky.
I lunged forward, gripping her slender arms roughly as I slammed her into the stone wall behind her, pinning her there with enough force to make her gasp. The heat of her body radiated against mine despite the cool night air that seeped through the chamber. I had to force myself to keep my eyes on hers rather than allowing them to drop lower, to take in the sight of her wearing only a thin shift that in the moonlight was mostly see-through.
"Drop the dagger." My voice was a dangerous rasp against her ear. The scent of her—something earthy, heady—filled my nostrils, making it harder to concentrate.
She looked up into my face, violet eyes now wide as full moons. A flash of fear crossed her features, but a second later,it was quickly replaced by something more complex—something angry, something that wouldn't give in so easily.
"I... I can explain everything if you'll just—"
"—yes, you will do exactly that," I cut her off, pressing closer until I could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest against mine. "But first, you will drop the dagger before I'm forced to take it from you."
She glanced down at the blade clutched in her white-knuckled grip, as if weighing her chances against me—a man who'd never known defeat. I could see the calculations behind those remarkable eyes, the desperate assessment of whether to submit or fight with her magic, because she knew trying to fend me off physically was a losing proposition.
Without her magic, she was at my mercy.
After another tense moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, her fingers slowly uncurled, and the dagger clattered against the stone floor. The sound echoed in the chamber like a final surrender.
When she looked back up at me, her breathing had become rapid and shallow, her chest inflating and deflating in quick succession. A single strand of that gossamer hair had fallen across her face, and I fought the inexplicable urge to brush it aside.
"Are you part of a plot to undermine Arthur's rule?" I closed the last inches between us until my large frame completely dominated her much smaller one. I could feel the heat of her breath on my face, see the pulse hammering in her throat, and her fear did something to me—Gods, I wanted her more than I'd ever wanted another woman. The need was eating me, almost painful.
"Please…"
"Who sent you to infiltrate Camelot?" I brought one of my hands from her arm to her throat as I closed my fingers around it.
"No one," she started, attempting to shake her head, but I held her immobile.
"Bullshit." I leaned even closer, feeling almost undone by the scent of her skin and hair.
"Please, Lance…"
My eyes narrowed of their own accord. "If you call me by that name again, I will close my fingers around your throat until I suffocate you."
To show her I was serious, I tightened my grip around her delicate throat, feeling the fragile curve of her windpipe beneath my calloused fingers. The pressure wasn't enough to truly harm—not yet—but sufficient to make my point crystal clear. Her breathing immediately hitched, becoming a sharp, desperate gasp that sent an unwelcome jolt of dark satisfaction through me. The sound awakened something savage within me, and I had to fight the need to shred her shift from her.
Her pulse thundered against my palm like a wild thing trapped, and I could see the exact moment when genuine fear flickered across those violet eyes. Yet even as terror painted her features, there was something else there—a stubborn defiance that refused to break, a steel core beneath that only made my desire burn hotter. She didn't beg, didn't whimper, simply stared up at me with those otherworldly eyes as if daring me to follow through on my threat.
She didn't struggle. Instead, she spoke quickly, urgently: "I did pull the sword from the stone, but I wanted, and I still want, no part of it. It was a mistake—one I don't want to carry the burden for. I am loyal to my king and always will be."
Something in her expression—an earnestness that seemed to radiate from beneath the layers of deception—made meloosen my grip slightly. Her eyes held a raw vulnerability that caught me off guard. The pulse beneath my fingers continued to flutter, yet she maintained that unwavering gaze. Defiance in the face of an angered Titan.
"You knew the king was searching for you—for the white-haired woman who pulled the sword." She nodded. "Yet you never announced yourself."
She looked at me then and frowned. "How could I have? I knew what punishment awaited me—death." I couldn't argue because it was most likely true. "Instead," she continued, swallowing hard, "I just pretended it hadn't happened—that Guinevere didn't exist."
"Guinevere," I repeated immediately. "Is that—"
"—my name," she finished for me, nodding. "Yes."
Of course, it was. And it was just as stunning, just as bewitching, just as beguiling as the woman who wore it.
I glared down at her, angry that I found her name as alluring as the woman it was attached to. "Are you telling me the truth?"
"Yes."
I searched her face meticulously, looking for the telltale twitches that would betray falsehood, the signs I'd been trained to detect in hundreds of interrogations. Instead, I found only a sincerity so profound it seemed to emanate from deep within her, cutting through my suspicion like sunlight through the dark.
