Page 144 of Propriety
Wasn’t sweet. She sobbed against his lips, feeling tears wet her cheeks as she clung to him.
There was nothing gentle in it. It was desperate and furious andalive, her lips crashing against his like she wanted to punish him andsave him at once. He made a sound — half gasp, half groan — but kissed her back, weak but hungry, clutching at the front of her tunic with blood-stained fingers.
He groaned underneath her, wincing slightly.
“Oh my god,” she pulled back, furiously wiping the tears from her face. “I’m so sorry. Did I-”
“No,” He shook his head, fingers still curled into her shirt. “Not you,neveryou. Just hurts.”
Her face crumpled. “I shouldn’t have-”
“No,” he said, jaw tight. “I wanted to. I just… couldn’t.” Their foreheads touched. Her hands trembled where they cupped his jaw.
“You idiot,” she whispered. “You beautiful, reckless,stupidman.” Her eyes flicked down to the bandage. While the bleeding had slowed significantly, blood was already beginning to seep through this dressing.
Guinevere sat back on her knees, giving him a once-over. “How are you feeling?” She asked, fingers brushing against the shallow gash on his arm.
“Never better,” He grinned. His hair was matted with blood, his chest streaked with it as well. His… and their assailants.
“You need a bath.” She scrunched her nose, untying the knot in the bandage.
With another wince, Lancelot shifted. “You are the most beautiful creature to ever walk this earth.” Fingers brushed her cheek gently.
“You sure you didn’t hit your head?” A laugh, followed by a quiet gasp. The stitching had held, but it was gruesome looking. “Should I clean it again?”
Lance shook his head quickly. “Not yet. Just wrap it back up. We’ll clean it once the pain dulls.”
With a nod, she tore another piece of clean fabric off of the tunic. He leaned forward so she could wrap the bandage around him, and while he tried to keep his brave face, Gwen heard his quiet gasps. The way his breathing hitched as she tightened the cloth.
“Did you find the willow?” He asked, settled back against the pack.
Opening the pouch, she dumped the shavings into her hands. “What do you need me to do?”
Lancelot blinked at her, dazed but trying to focus. “You’ve got to crush it. Fine as you can.”
She nodded, reaching for a flat stone, tipping the shavings onto it. She started grinding with the hilt of her knife, slow, even pressure. Her hands shook anyway.
“Finer,” he rasped. “It won’t help if I choke on it.”
“Don’t joke,” she snapped. “You’re barely breathing as it is.”
“Then it’s good you’re here,” he said, lips twitching. “I’ll die slower just to spite you.”
“Lance-”
“I mean it,” he murmured. “No one yells at me like you do. Makes a man feel special.”
She didn’t answer, just ground the bark harder, faster, until the rough bits were powdered and dark against the stone. She scraped it into her hand with the edge of the blade.
“This enough?” she asked.
“Almost.” He shifted again, teeth gritted. “I’ll need water or wine. Something to wash it down.”
“I don’t have—”
“Spit, then,” he said with a weak grin. “I’m not picky.”
“You’re disgusting.”
