But she hadn’t flinched. Not once.
That was what had undone me, if I was being honest with myself, which lately I tried not to be. Any other person, man or woman, would have crumbled under the weight of that many eyes. Under the calculated humiliation of it. Arthur had orchestrated the whole thing, and he’d done so in order to break her. To make her appear small.
But she’d refused.
She’d lifted her chin and met the gaze of every man in that hall. One by one. Like she was the one holding all the power, like she was the one choosing to stand there, in all her naked glory.
And they’d stared at her. Because of course they had. How could they not stare at the body of a woman that had been sent by the gods themselves? And I’d stared at her too, even if she might not have caught me. I’d looked because I hadn’t been able to help it. I was no better than the rest of them.
I’d stared at those round and heavy tits that had occupied the entirety of my palms so perfectly, as if they’d been made for my hands alone. And I’d stared at the curve of her waist, the pale jut of her collarbone. I’d stared at the way the torchlight moved across her skin like it was trying to get close to something warm.
I remembered what that skin felt like under my hands, what her mouth tasted like, what her cunt tasted like. I remembered the feel of her stretching to take my girth. I remembered the slick wetness of her passage, the way her quim tightened aroundme until it was all I could do to keep myself from releasing. I remembered the specific sound she made when —
The anger came fast and hot, the way it always did when the memories got too specific, too close, too personal. The anger wasn’t at her necessarily. At least, it was never cleanly at her. No, it was more at myself for being exactly as weak as I’d always suspected I was underneath the armor, the reputation, and the thirty-five years of careful, disciplined performance.
I’d stood there in Arthur’s hall, staring at the woman who had completely and totally undone me. I’d stood there with my cock hard, my mind furious, and my heart utterly disgusted with itself.
And nothing had changed since.
As I stared at her now and watched how the torchlight caught the curve of her cheek and the pale column of her throat, my chest lurched.
From where I stood in the shadow of the corridor, she hadn’t noticed me, and I used that to my advantage as I watched her breathe and hated myself for every second of it. Hated the way my eyes traced the line of her jaw, and hated the way my body felt so drawn to her.
Something pressed against the inside of my ribs, but as soon as I felt it, I killed it. Smothered it before it could take shape, before it could name itself. And I replaced it with something sharper, something I knew how to use.
Anger. Raw and potent.
She’d made a fool of me. She’d lied to my face repeatedly. She’d used me, and she’d used my feelings for her against me. She’d turned me into something I’d sworn I would never be: weak. And for that? I did hate her.
My jaw tightened, and I pushed off the wall. My boots scraped against the stone floor as I stepped forward, crossing thethreshold between shadow and torchlight. The moment the light caught me, she turned her head.
Her eyes immediately found mine, but she said nothing. Neither did I. She just held my gaze the way a cornered animal locates a threat before it even fully registers what it’s seeing. There was no flinching and no cowering. Just that violet, steady gaze locking onto me with the kind of stillness that had always unnerved me so much more than any drawn blade ever could.
“Lance.”
That one word nearly upended me, but I pushed against the onslaught of emotion, pushed against the tidal wave that wanted to scream at her, that wanted to understand how and why she’d done what she had, that wanted to rip her clothes off and bury myself as deeply inside her as I could. Yes, I wanted to fuck my hate into her and use her beautiful body just as thoroughly as she’d used me.
I let the silence between us stretch because she needed to feel the weight of it first.
“Thomas Wren,” I finally said.
Her expression didn’t change.
“Thirty-one years old. Two daughters. One was four, and one was seven.” I kept my voice level. “He used to carry a drawing the older child made for him. He kept it tucked inside his gauntlet.” I paused. “He showed it to me once, and he was as proud as a man with a crown.”
She said nothing.
“Brynn Colm.” I moved closer to the bars. “He sang constantly. Every battle hymn he knew, and he knew every single fucking word.” Something moved in my chest, but I pressed through it.
“Aldric Pane.”
The torchlight threw shadows across her face. She was very still and so fucking small inside the enormous darkness surrounding her.
“Eighteen years old.” My voice dropped without my permission. “He’d been with us only six months. Hadn’t even grown a proper beard yet.” I felt my jaw grow even tighter. “He used to blush when the men told ribald jokes. And then he’d laugh just because he wanted them to like him.” I stopped. “They did like him.”
I watched her throat move.
“I don’t underst—”
