"I can scent your desire." The words rumbled from deep in his chest, more growl than speech. "Even now, knowing what I harbor inside me—the beast—knowing that beast could rip you into pieces, your body betrays you."
Heat flooded my face, but I couldn't argue. Instead, I just held his stare.
"You hunger for me."
"Yes." It was just a whisper.
"Are you wet?"
I didn't dare back down. "Yes."
"Spread your legs."
So I took a step apart. He dropped down to his haunches, almost eye level with my quim. Then he closed his eyes, opening his mouth to scent me again. When he opened his eyes, they were fully red. "Your scent… it's undoing me." His voice was rough with restraint that was rapidly fraying. As I watched, I could see the fight playing out within him. The dragon wanted to be freed, and the king was doing everything in his power to keep it contained.
"We covet what we scent. What belongs to us."
He stood then, and whatever restraint he'd been clinging to snapped. The mask of kingship fell away entirely, revealing the raw, untamed creature that lived beneath the crown and royal trappings. With a growl that reverberated from deep within his chest—more savage beast than civilized man—his hand shot out and tangled roughly in my hair, strong fingers twisting through the strands with deliberate force. The sharp pull sent jolts of pain across my scalp as he yanked my head back, exposing the vulnerable line of my throat to his hungry gaze. I could feel his callused fingertips against my scalp, the controlled strength in his grip that spoke of a man accustomed to taking what he wanted.
"I have thought of nothing other than you," he whispered, his breath fanning across my cheek, which made me swallow hard. "Every night it's been the same—fitful dreams of a woman with white hair and violet eyes."
I wanted to speak, to say something, but no words would come, so I remained silent; but the truth was a burning coal in my chest—I wanted this, wanted Arthur, for longer than I cared to admit. From the first moment I'd seen him, even knowing who and what he was, what he represented, the desire had always been there. The wanting had been a constant ache beneath every conversation, every shared glance, every moment of pretending to be someone else.
He must have recognized my silence for what it was—an agreement that I desired him just as much as he did me—because his mouth crashed down on mine a split second later.
The kiss was nothing like the gentle explorations I'd imagined in stolen moments; this was conquest, possession, an assertion of dominance that stole my breath. His lips were firm yet surprisingly soft, demanding a response I couldn't help but give, despite every warning screaming in my mind. And when Ifelt fangs lengthening while he kissed me, the fire in my belly only deepened. His tongue plunged into my mouth, and I eagerly met it with my own, moaning against him.
His other arm snaked around my waist, hauling me against the hard, unyielding lines of his body until not even a whisper of space remained between us. His heat radiated through me—unearthly and intense, like standing too close to a fire. I found myself instinctively melting into that scorching embrace, my own body betraying every carefully constructed defense I'd built since arriving in Camelot.
His fingers encircled my wrists completely, pinning them at my sides as he deepened the kiss, a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his chest when I responded by once more meeting his tongue with my own.
My back hit the rough bark of an ancient oak as he pressed me against it, his movements possessive and demanding. His kiss was punishing, designed to claim rather than cherish, and yet heat pooled low in my belly despite—or perhaps because of—its ferocity.
"You are ours. You belong to us."
My expression felt as complex as the emotions warring in my chest. Fear mingled with desire, uncertainty with a need so sharp it made it hard to breathe. I said nothing, gave him no words of encouragement or denial, but my silence seemed to be answer enough.
His hands began to move down my body, each touch both question and accusation. His clawed fingers traced the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist, lingering. The calluses on his palms and the scales on the tops of his hands rasped against my skin, but they only heightened the need bubbling inside me.
"Is this what you sought when you infiltrated my knights—to seduce their king?" he demanded, his voice rough with want and anger. His fingers were gentle one moment, demanding the next,as though he couldn't decide whether to worship or punish. The contradiction mirrored the man himself—a king capable of both terrible cruelty and unexpected tenderness.
"No," I managed to gasp as his hands moved lower, exploring the flatness of my belly, coming dangerously close to touching my most private places. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears—breathless, wanting, yet edged with determination. "This was never my intention."
His laugh was low and disbelieving against my throat. "Your body tells a different story, Guinevere."
And gods help me, he wasn't wrong. Despite everything—the danger, the betrayal, the knowledge of who we both were—my treacherous body responded to his touch like dry tinder to flame. Each brush of his fingers left trails of heat that pooled low in my belly.
He glared down at me. "What is your intention now then?"
I stared up at him. "To feel you inside me." His eyes narrowed as if he were trying to discern whether I was telling him the truth. "Even though it was never my intention to want you… I did, and I do. From the moment I first saw you."
His eyes burned into mine. "Go on."
I swallowed hard. "I wanted to understand you." I fought to maintain clarity as his thumb traced circles on my hip, inching closer to the wetness between my thighs. "To see if you were the tyrant Merlin described—"
"Call him by what he is," Arthur growled. "Yourfather."
"He has never been a father to me." I spat the words back.
