Every instinct honed through years of knighthood screamed that I should withdraw, disappear silently into the shadows of the forest, and pretend I'd witnessed nothing of this forbidden tryst. Yet my feet remained rooted to the earth as though some ancient magic bound me there.
My own desire for Guinevere flared painfully in my chest and lower still. I could recall with perfect clarity the feel of her hair between my fingers, the taste of her lips, the way she'd yielded to me, the way her maidenhead had split for me.
Along with these memories came the acute, twisting sting of betrayal. Arthur, my king, my brother-in-arms, the man I'd sworn my life to protect—and the woman who had given herself to me first, who had looked into my eyes with what I thought was truth—they had both deceived me, each in their own way.
As he lowered his body above hers, now fumbling with his braies, I forced myself to turn away. I leaned against the tree, breathing heavily, processing the images of Arthur's hands moving possessively over her body.
We'd shared women before—I’d buried myself deep in many a willing servant woman while she simultaneously worked her mouth on Arthur's cock, her moans vibrating around him as I thrust into her from behind. Another time, he'd taken his pleasure with an eager noblewoman bent over his table while I watched, stroking myself, waiting for my turn to claim her still-wet heat. There had been tavern wenches who'd serviced us both in the same night, courtesans who'd been paid to please us together, even a few bold ladies of the court who'd whispered their desires for both the king and his most trusted knight.
Sharing women with Arthur had been as natural as sharing wine or victory spoils—just another expression of our brotherhood, our unbreakable bond forged in battle and sealed in blood. We were knights, warriors, men who took what we wanted when we wanted it. Women had always been part of the spoils we divided between us.
So why was this different? Why was the thought of Arthur's fingers in Guinevere's body making me want to tear him apart with my bare hands? Why did the image of her beneath him feel like a blade twisting in my gut?
I suddenly recalled Guinevere's nervous vulnerability the night I'd taken her, the unmistakable evidence of her virginity, the way she'd whispered my name. A surge of possessive rage flooded through me.
I was her first,I thought.She was mine.The thoughts continued to burn through me like wildfire:I claimed her maidenhood. By all ancient rights, she should be mine.
This feeling of ownership surprised me—I had never considered myself possessive of any woman I bedded. Yet something about this one had triggered this animalistic response—a sense that our first joining had created an unbreakable bond between us. Perhaps it was an example of her witchcraft? Perhaps she'd enchanted me just as she had Arthur?
My hand tightened on my sword hilt again, but there was no thought in felling the witch. For a moment, I considered charging forward to challenge Arthur directly. The thought of another man—even my king—touching what I considered mine was nearly unbearable.
But, of course, I couldn't do that. Not without signing my own death warrant.
I pressed my forehead against the rough bark of the tree, trying to cool the fever in my blood. Despite my possessive rage, something held me back from interrupting them, and my initial impulse to charge forward transformed into something darker.
I knew then that I couldn't leave. No matter how much part of me wanted to flee from this torment, to spare myself the agony of witnessing what was unfolding before me. No matter how much my rational mind screamed that I shouldn't be watching, that this voyeuristic transgression would only deepen my suffering. My feet seemed rooted to the forest floor, my body betraying the commands of my better judgment.
The magnetic pull between them held me captive, as if some dark enchantment had woven itself around my limbs and bound me to this spot. Perhaps it was her magic at work again, compelling me to witness Arthur's claim on her. Or perhaps it was nothing more than my own twisted fascination, the same morbid curiosity that drew men to watch public executions or observe the aftermath of bloody battles.
Whatever force kept me here, I found myself unable—or perhaps unwilling—to turn away from the scene playing out before me. Instead, I moved silently to a better vantage point, concealed behind a large oak but with a clear view. As much as it pained me, I wanted to watch him take her, wanted to observe her expression when he entered her.
My breathing grew shallow and quick, my body responding as Arthur held himself above her and spread her legs as wide asthey would go. Arthur's hands seized her hips with possessive force, his fingers digging into her pale flesh.
"You're so tight," he growled against her ear as he plunged his fingers inside her.
Pain lanced through me, sharp and unforgiving. The sensation was married with an intense jealousy—the likes of which I'd never experienced. This wasn't the simple sting of wounded pride or the familiar burn of battlefield rivalry. This was a possessive fury that clawed at my chest and made my vision blur.
The jealousy consumed me from within, spreading through me like molten metal, poisoning every rational thought. I'd known jealousy before—over tournaments, over Arthur's favor, over various small slights—but nothing had prepared me for this raw, savage need to tear another man away from what I considered mine. Every fiber of my being screamed in protest at the sight before me, at Arthur's hands on her body, at the sounds of pleasure she made beneath his touch.
Let him have this moment,I thought darkly.What I claimed first remains mine, regardless of who touches her now.The thought was a balm to my wounded pride, a promise I clung to with desperate certainty.
I turned back to watch them, to watchher.As I did, Arthur withdrew his fingers from her and studied them for a few seconds. Then he looked back at her.
"Has… someone had you?"
And then it clicked. He'd expected to see blood—her blood on his fingers. Or perhaps he'd expected to feel her maidenhead. Regardless, he'd expected to find her still virginal. How he'd known she was a maiden, I didn't know, and nor did I want to think about it. But then it dawned on me—the moment he'd shared with her at the lake. When she'd pulled Excalibur. Hemust have—had amomentwith her. Enough to know she was unspoiled.
I watched her expression as surprise transformed it from passion. She breathed out deeply.
"Yes," she whispered.
Arthur pulled back from her as if she'd just slapped him. "Who?" he demanded, his tone livid, as my heart started to pound in earnest. "Who has had you?"
Would she name me?
A sudden, bone-deep fear overcame me as I realized what it would mean if Arthur learned the truth—thatIhad taken her virginity. The full weight of my transgression crashed down on me like a collapsing mountain. Not only had I claimed what he clearly believed was his, but I'd done so knowing exactly how important she was to him.
And yet, despite knowing this, despite understanding that Arthur had some claim on her that went beyond mere desire, I hadn't turned her over to him as honor demanded. Instead, I'd taken her for myself, stolen those intimate moments that he believed should have been his. The betrayal felt even more profound now as I watched his face contort with possessive rage, knowing that beneath his royal fury lay genuine hurt at discovering she was no longer the untouched maiden he'd believed her to be; that another man had gotten to her before he had.
