Page 91 of Propriety
He was still in his formal knight attire. He smelt like steel, smoke, and blood.
But his touch was so gentle, so reverent, that he could have been in his full armor and she wouldn’t have cared.
“He hit you.” Her fingers reached for his jaw — carefully, searching. She found the swelling.
“It’s nothing.”
“Lancelot-”
“It’snothing.” He turned his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her palm. His hand came to cradle her face softly. “If it means you get to walk back to your chambers without the fear of being violated in your own home, I will gladly take his punches every night for the rest of our lives.”
Guinevere’s breath caught. The honesty in his voice broke something clean and deep inside her. “Don’t say that,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Don’t talk like that… like this is just how it has to be.”
His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, slow and reverent. “I would bear far worse if it meant I could still come back to you.”
They sat in the silence together for a long while, Guinevere felt the tug of sleep tempting her once more. Now that he was here, now that his arms were around her, it was harder to refuse.
“I hate that he touched you,” Lancelot spoke again, his words low… almost a growl. “I hate that I was too late. I hate that I can’t undo it.” His fingers clenched a little tighter around her. “I hate him.”
Her stomach churned at his words.
Not in fear of him — never that. But in the echo of everythingshe had buried. Everything she had tried not to remember.
Everything she hadendured.
But with the sickness of remembering.
With the nausea of losing him.
With the fear of knowing how much worse it could still get.
“I hate him.” Lancelot said again, quieter this time. His voice broke on the words.
Gwen pressed her lips faintly against his. “Then love me louder.”
He didn’t answer her, he didn’t have to. He loved her in the ways he held her. In the ways he protected her.
In the ways he shielded her.
“Take off these awful things.” She tried to sound playful, but it came out like a whisper of urgency. “I’m so cold, and they’re keeping your warmth tucked away.”
“Needy queen,” he teased, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He slipped from her hold, his movements unhurried, as if allowing the moment to stretch between them. Standing at the side of the bed, he undid the ties of his tabard, the notch on his belt, the laces of his breeches.
Guinevere couldn’t tear her eyes away from him — each movement felt like it was undoing something inside of her, something locked up tight and hidden away. She watched him, desperate to feel his skin beneath her hands again, to know that he was here with her, not just in body, but in spirit.
Her heart ached in a way that was almost unbearable, and the sickness of the past seemed to tighten its hold on her body with every breath.
She reached for him before he was fully undressed, her handstrembling slightly. “Lancelot,” she whispered, voice strained, a plea —for warmth,for more. But even as she called out to him, something in her seemed to falter, and she leaned back against the pillows, her body suddenly feeling too heavy, the world around her spinning in dizzying circles.
“Guinevere?” He was by her side in an instant, hands cupping her face. “You’re burning up, dove.”
“Lance.” Her eyes were unfocused. She couldn’t bring herself back to the room. “Lancelot, please.”
“I’m right here,mon amour.” His voice cracked as he brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, heart hammering in her chest. His thumb stroked her fevered skin, eyes searching her face as though trying to piece her together, to understand what was happening.
“Breathe with me, Gwen.” His voice was urgent, almost panicked. “Focus on me, love. What’s going on?”
But before she could respond, her body betrayed her. She retched violently; the bile rising too quickly, her stomach heaving and emptying onto the blanket, her nightgown, and — horribly — onto Lancelot.
