CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
In response, heat began to bloom through me.
But not the fire of righteous anger that had sustained me through years of planning revenge.
This was a different sort of heat entirely—treacherous and unwanted.
It began to pulse where his strong fingers gripped my arms, spreading outward like ripples on still water, coiling low and insistent in my belly.
My body betrayed me, responding to his nearness despite everything I knew about him, despite the blood on his hands. The rational part of my mind recoiled, but my flesh seemed to have its own treacherous mind, warming under his penetrating stare.
This is Arthur Pendragon, I yelled at myself. King of Camelot. My target. The man I’d been sent to betray. The man who had murdered my parents. The man who was about to murder me.
Go for the sword and run him through with his own blade.
“Excalibur yielded to you.” His voice was rough, almost hoarse. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He studied me, eyes flicking over my face—then down, lingering on my breasts, which were now heaving. The space between us pulsed, dangerous and alive.
“What is your fucking name?” he ground out, eyes fixed on my nipples, which hardened beneath his gaze, straining against the fabric.
I hesitated too long as I searched for words that wouldn't come.
His stare became a blade in itself—unyielding, merciless, cutting through whatever fragile composure I'd managed to maintain.
I felt the exact moment his patience snapped, saw it in the subtle shift of his jaw, the way his nostrils flared.
Cold steel suddenly jutted under my chin before I even saw him move, the metal kissing my skin.
One heartbeat he was glaring down at me from his towering height; the next, his ornate dagger—the ceremonial blade that hung at his side—rested at my throat, promising swift death.
The transition had been so fluid, so practiced, that my eyes couldn't even track the movement.
This was a man who had killed before, many times, and would do so again without hesitation.
His grip remained steady as stone. Not a tremor, not the slightest waver.
"Not a difficult question." His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout could have.
My mind scrambled for a lie. Say something. Anything.
“El—Elaine,” I stammered, hating the way the word faltered on my tongue.
His eyes narrowed to deadly slits, the piercing blue depths freezing over. The tip of the blade beneath my chin felt even more pointed as he pushed slightly, the razor-sharp steel biting just enough to remind me how easily it could part flesh from bone.
"Do you think it wise to lie to your king?"
The words came out deceptively soft. But that voice also held the promise of violence barely leashed. It was the tone of a man who had executed subjects for far less than deception.
Fear and anger tangled inside me until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Part of me—the reckless, defiant part that had gotten me into this mess—wanted to challenge him, to unleash the magic coursing through me and turn the tides of this deadly game.
I could feel the power stirring beneath my skin, responding to the threat, begging to be released in a torrent of fury.
But that wasn't a good idea. Not when his blade was perched against my throat. Not when those winter-blue eyes watched me with the calculating patience of a man who had perfected the art of intimidation through years of absolute rule.
"N-no, Your Majesty."
“Your name,” Arthur said again, quieter now, more dangerous. "This time the truth."
His thumb brushed my cheekbone, the gesture almost tender, at odds with the blade beneath my jaw.
But I could say nothing; my mind was a blank page. All I could do—all I could focus on—was the way he seemed to be fighting himself—how his gaze kept lingering on the curve of my breasts before he'd force it back up to my eyes again. His breathing had grown shallow.
His hunger was unmistakable.
"It is… Adele, Sire."
"Adele," he repeated, still studying me as if to decipher whether or not this was another lie. I simply nodded. His gaze focused on my lips, and I swallowed hard.
He wanted me—clear as day.
"I have not seen you before, Adele." His lips curved between a smile and a sneer.
"I—" My voice caught as his other hand slid around my waist, drawing me closer. A small cry escaped me, and even though I wanted to push away from him, I didn't.
A chuckle broke from his lips as he moved closer. "You fear me?"
"Y-yes," I stammered, telling him what I was fairly sure he wanted to hear.
"Smart girl. I could snap this little throat of yours like a twig."
"Y-yes, Your Majesty."
"Now do not lie to your king again."
“No, Your Majesty.”
If he meant to arrest me, he’d have already summoned the guards. If he meant to kill me, I’d already be dead. Yet here I was—pressed against him. Pressed against the King of Camelot, my enemy—his blade at my throat and my nipples stiff.
What was wrong with me?
“Please, sire."
“Please... what?”
“Please… allow me to return to the castle. The matron will wonder why I’ve been gone so long.”
Arthur laughed—sharp, humorless. “Do you think I give a fuck about the matron?” He closed the space between us in an instant, breath hot against my face, voice low and dangerous. “Do you know what happens to those who meddle with royal artifacts?”
I shook my head. He dropped the dagger so his hand could slide from my cheek to my collarbone, fingers splayed across my bare skin like they were laying claim. His calluses scraped against me—rough, intimate, electric.
This was madness. I was here to spy on him, to find his weaknesses, to help Merlin eventually defeat him. I was here to avenge my parents, not relish the feel of his fingers against my bare skin.
“N-no,” I stammered.
“They end up in my dungeons.”
He was too close, too warm, too powerful.
The heat radiating from his muscled frame seemed to wrap around me like a living thing, making the cool night air feel distant.
His body contradicted every threat he uttered—leaning in when he should have stepped back, eyes dark with something more dangerous than mere anger, breath hitching in a way that spoke of barely leashed desire rather than fury.
When he reached out with deliberate slowness to secure a stray piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingered on my cheek.
“Gods, you are lovely.” His gaze traveled down my face and lower still, until they rested on my nipples, which were now poking through the thin fabric of my shift.
He reached down and ran his finger over one of my pebbled nipples, causing my breath to catch.
“But beauty doesn’t excuse trespass.”
“N—no, sire.”
He leaned in again, lips nearly touching my ear. “Do you want to end up in my dungeons, little temptress?”
“No, sire.” Though my eyes were downcast, mimicking submission, my mind was scrambling for a way out of this. He continued to rub my nipple between his thumb and index finger, and I fought not to moan.
"Good girl." His voice dropped to a dangerous register.
Finally, he pulled his hand away from my breast, the loss of contact making me bite back a whimper of protest that I desperately hoped he hadn't noticed.
His fingers moved upward, threading through the loose strands of my hair with a strange sort of possessiveness.
"Unusual." He studied the pale locks between his fingers, frowning. "White as fresh snow." His brow furrowed slightly, and I could see the wheels turning in his mind—the calculating look of a king who had survived this long by questioning everything that seemed out of place.
Before I could formulate any response, his hand moved with sudden decisiveness, wrapping a generous fistful of my hair tight at the nape of my neck.
The grip was firm enough to command but not quite painful—a display of control that forced my chin up and made me meet those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
The position left me completely vulnerable, unable to look away from his gaze.
"I don't want you in my dungeons."
"Thank you, sire." My throat was tight, and the words came out more breathless than I intended, betraying just how affected I was by his proximity, his touch, his complete dominance.
"Don't thank me," he snapped suddenly, his voice turning sharp as steel, the warmth draining from his expression so quickly it left me reeling. The transformation was jarring—one moment he'd been almost tender, the next cold as the grave. "Perhaps I plan to kill you instead."
The words hung in the air between us. Yet even as the threat left his lips, something shifted in his touch.
His hold on my hair gentled almost imperceptibly, his thumb moving to brush along the line of my jaw with an almost reverent softness that completely contradicted the harshness of the words he'd just said.
"But that would be such a waste of the most beautiful face I've ever seen." He ran his thumb across my cheek and down to my lips, then pushed down slightly on my bottom lip, forcing my mouth open.
I could feel myself panting, my chest rising and falling rapidly as my heart hammered.
The air seemed to have grown thinner in the space between us, each breath a struggle.
My voice came out barely above a whisper, trembling with a mixture of fear and something else I refused to acknowledge.
"What… what do you intend to do with me? "
The question hung in the air as I searched his face desperately for any hint of his intentions, but his expression remained unreadable—a masterwork of controlled power that revealed nothing while promising everything.
"What if I told you I intended to fuck you?"
I swallowed hard. "I—"
"Would you like that?" He leaned in closer, nibbling my earlobe.
I was panting hard, feeling faint. "I..."
"Do not lie to me again, girl."
"Yes," I whispered, realizing it was not only the answer he wanted to hear, but it was also the cold, honest truth.
He brought his face closer—our noses almost touching.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sire."
"No." He shook his head. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."
"I... want you to… fuck me… sire."
Then I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut as waves of embarrassment and anger crashed over me in alternating tides.
The heat of shame burned across my cheeks, making my skin feel fevered and exposed under his penetrating gaze.
How dare he speak to me with such crude intimacy?
How dare he reduce me to nothing more than a vessel for his desires?
Yet beneath the indignation, a treacherous part of my mind whispered that his words had awakened something dark and wanting within me—something that made my pulse quicken and my breath catch in ways I didn't fully understand.
The embarrassment wasn't just from his brazen questions but from my own body's traitorous response to them.
I felt caught between two warring impulses: the urge to take my revenge out on him and the inexplicable desire to lean closer, to discover what other forbidden words might fall from his lips.
The anger provided a blessed shield against the vulnerability threatening to overwhelm me, but even that felt fragile against the weight of his presence.