Page 106 of Propriety
Guinevere let the silence linger, then glanced up at him with a wicked little smirk. “Jealous?”
Lancelot didn’t sit.
He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Possessive,” he murmured. “There’s a difference.”
And then, just to keep her tethered, he kissed her shoulder, quick and burning, before sitting once more.
“Now who’s reckless?” She teased.
He didn’t answer. The glare on his face said plenty.
It didn’t end with Bors.
Later in the evening, when the minstrels had shifted to something slower — courtly, elegant, thick with unspoken meanings, Sir Elric approached.
Younger than Bors. Sharper. Handsome in that clean, cold way. The kind of man who smiled with his mouth but never his eyes.
He bowed before her with impeccable form.
“Your Grace,” he said smoothly, “it would be my honor to have this dance.”
Guinevere set her goblet down, slow and deliberate. “Is it honor you’re after?” she asked. “Or favor?”
“A little of both, perhaps,” he said, smiling. “One rarely has the chance to stand beside Camelot’s most radiant flame.”
She said nothing. Her gaze was unreadable.
But Lancelot stood again.
This time, there was no gentleness. No shadow of play. His handcame down heavy on the table, rattling a silver dish of berries.
“Step away,” he said. It wasn’t a request.
Elric’s eyes flicked over to him. “My lord. I was merely-”
“You were warned.”
He moved between them, entirely blocking Guinevere from view. The hall had quieted again. Even Arthur had turned to watch.
Lancelot did not care.
“She has already refused once,” he said, voice low and deadly. “You presume too much.”
Elric lifted his hands. “Forgive me. No offense meant.”
“Then take none as you walk away.”
He did.
Lancelot did not sit right away. He turned to Guinevere instead, offering his hand. “Come,” he said, rough around the edges. “Dance with me. Before I put my fist through someone.”
She took his hand without hesitation, a wry smile blooming across her lips.
The music swelled, and she stepped into his arms.
Lancelot’s hand found her waist — firm. Possessive. His other hand cradled hers, but not like a knight cradles a queen. Like a man cradles what he wouldburn down the worldto protect.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured.
