CHAPTER FORTY-TWO #2
I remained hidden several minutes longer, my legs too unsteady to trust, ensuring she had truly gone before emerging from behind the tapestry.
The stone floor sounded loud beneath my feet as I finally stepped out, my breath still coming in uneven bursts. When I moved to sit on the edge of the bed she had recently occupied, the mattress still held the indentation of her body, a phantom reminder of what had transpired here.
My hands still trembled uncontrollably, fingers flexing and unfurling as though trying to grasp something that had already slipped away, and my cock still raged against my breeches with an insistence that shamed me.
The chamber felt oppressively quiet now, her absence a hollowness that echoed louder than any sound could.
And yet, she lingered—her presence clung to the air like mist after a storm.
It pressed against my skin with invisible fingers, insistent and heavy.
I didn’t think—couldn’t think. My body moved on instinct, as though drawn by a force I could neither name nor resist. I stepped toward the bed, knelt beside it, and lowered my face to the linens, breathing in.
Hoping—desperately, shamefully—for a trace of her scent left behind.
And there it was.
Warmth. Lavender. A whisper of something otherworldly. It was subtle but unmistakable. I closed my eyes, inhaling again, as if the faint remnants of her could explain what no logic could. As if they could fill the aching space her truth had carved open inside me.
The sheets held the mingled fragrance of her skin, sweat, and that undefinable essence of a woman's sex—a heady combination of salt, musk, and something uniquely hers.
The scent hit me with such force that my body responded instantly, a visceral reaction I couldn't control.
With hands that still trembled, I freed my cock from the cumbersome fabric holding it back, the relief immediate as it sprang forth, hard and aching.
I settled myself more firmly on the edge of the bed where she had lain, running my fingers over the depression her body had left in the mattress.
Then I began to stroke myself, slowly at first, my callused palm rough against sensitive skin as I closed my eyes and let the phantom memory of her wash over me.
Yes, I fully realized Lioran—or whatever the beauty's true name was—could return at any moment. But I couldn't say I cared. The urgency pulsing through me had overtaken all reason, all sense of propriety or caution. I couldn't leave this room without relieving myself—that much was certain.
I reached out with trembling fingers and ran them across the still-warm depression where she had pleasured herself, the dampness not yet evaporated from the linens.
I was desperate to capture something of her essence, to transfer it to my skin.
When I brought my fingers to my nose, there was the unmistakable faint scent of her wetness, of her cunt—delicate yet raw.
My eyes closed involuntarily as I breathed in again, deeper this time, letting the intoxicating scent of her flood my senses completely.
Some distant part of my mind registered the shame of it all—a knight of my standing, behaving like a rutting animal, sniffing bedsheets like a common stable boy.
Yet there was little I could do to stop myself.
My need for her had transcended mere physical desire; it had become something elemental, a hunger that demanded satisfaction.
It didn't take long before my cock erupted with my orgasm, as ropy cum coated my hands and shot onto the floor in powerful spurts. My knees nearly buckled with the force of my release, pleasure crashing through me in waves that seemed to last an eternity.
I bit down on my lower lip to stifle the groan that threatened to escape.
When it was over, I sat there with cum leaking from my tip and through my fingers.
And blast it all to hell, I hadn't thought to look for a rag of some sort.
The evidence of my weakness lay splattered across the stone floor, a damning testament to how thoroughly I wanted her, this Lioran imposter.
Grabbing a stray piece of clothing the woman had left beside her bed, I cleaned my cock and my hand, watching as the fabric absorbed the evidence of my shameful weakness.
Then I bent down to sop up the mess I'd made on the stone floor, careful not to miss a single drop that might betray my presence.
The cool air against my skin reminded me of my vulnerability, standing half-dressed in another's chamber like a spy.
The clothing, which turned out to be a tunic, bore the faint scent of her—that same intoxicating aroma that had driven me to this madness in the first place.
I wadded it up tightly, palming it as I straightened to my full height.
My fingers clenched around the fabric, knuckles whitening with the force of my grip.
Clearly, I couldn't leave it here—not with the evidence of my arousal soaked into its fibers, a damning testimony to my trespass.
Lioran—no, this woman masquerading as Lioran—would just have to think the servants had confused the tunic for someone else's and that it had gone missing.
A convenient explanation that would never lead back to me, found skulking and spilling seed in a recruit's chambers like some untrained youth.
I wadded up the tunic and thrust it beneath my arm, concealing it as best I could.
Then I pulled my braies up once more and, tying them, took a deep breath.
Pressing my ear to the door, I waited—listening for any sound that might betray another’s approach.
Hearing none, I slipped into the corridor and hurried away, my steps quick and silent.
A tempest of emotion crashed over me with each stride: relief—raw and startling—that my desire had not, in the end, been for a man.
But that comfort was immediately swallowed by anger—anger at being deceived so thoroughly, made to feel a fool in my own keep.
And beneath that, the worst of them all: desire.
Persistent, undiminished, even heightened by the truth now bared.
Her deception should have soured whatever feelings I harbored for her, and yet…
it hadn’t. If anything, the fire burned hotter now, its heat impossible to ignore.
But what now? What did this mean for her—and for me?
This wasn’t mere subterfuge. Her presence in Camelot, disguised as a knight, was treason.
Arthur’s decree was clear: no woman could take up arms as a knight in his realm.
And yet… she’d not only dared—she'd excelled.
She'd fought with honor, borne the trials with grace, matched her peers in strength, and surpassed many others who were no longer here.
And then there was that hair and those eyes. That unmistakable white and violet—just as Arthur had described. The same features he'd spoken of with haunted reverence after the sword rejected his hand and yielded instead to the mysterious maiden.
Could it be her?
Of course it’s her, I nearly spat at myself.
The woman in Lioran’s skin and the woman who drew Excalibur—they were one and the same. There could be no doubt.
Suddenly, her presence in Camelot wasn’t just dangerous. It was cataclysmic.
Why come here? Why risk everything to compete in Arthur’s trials?
Was she Merlin’s agent, sent in secret to infiltrate and destroy from within?
Or was she a member of the Northern Rebellion, as Arthur suspected?
If either were the case, what did she plan to do with the knowledge that she'd pulled Excalibur?
Was she planning on taking Arthur's throne?
Yet... nothing in her behavior suggested sabotage.
She'd shown honor—true honor—in every task.
Where others sought glory, she served. Where others inflicted pain, she chose mercy.
I'd seen it. Arthur had seen it. We'd felt it.
She had the makings of a knight in every way that mattered—except the one the law forbade.
And still—above all the questions, the implications, the looming threat—remained the most damning truth of all: she wanted me. Desired me with such fervor that she'd spoken my name in the throes of her own fantasy.
My name.
I knew without a doubt that the moment would haunt me forever, as would the heat it stirred within me. I should have been repulsed. I should have walked away from her and straight to Arthur, revealed everything.
But I hadn’t. I couldn’t.
Because the truth was—I wanted her too—more than I’d ever wanted anyone.
-LANCE-
After supper, I immediately retired to my quarters, feigning stomach upset.
There I spent hours in silent contemplation, weighing duty against feelings that threatened to tear me apart.
As Arthur's First Knight, my course should have been clear—report the impostor immediately.
The king's laws allowed for no exceptions.
And yet, I delayed.
I told myself I needed more evidence; that accusing a knight—no, a woman—of such a crime without incontrovertible proof would be irresponsible, unjust, dangerous.
These were the excuses I crafted like a master blacksmith shaping a blade—flawless in design, yet forged to protect not the realm, but her.
Because I knew exactly what her punishment would be.
Execution.
The thought haunted me with the clarity of a prophecy: her white hair swept aside, the executioner’s shadow falling across that proud, graceful neck.
I could see the gleam of the blade as the crowd watched, eager for justice.
I could see Arthur, seated high above, his expression unreadable, as always. And I could see myself—helpless.
Or worse—responsible.
The thought made me physically ill. The bitter irony nearly choked me—I’d witnessed countless executions without flinching, delivered death without hesitation when it was called for—yet this woman’s imagined death struck at something so deep, so tender within me, I could barely breathe.
Because it cannot happen, I told myself. Because she pulled the sword from the stone.
And not just any sword—the sword. Excalibur. The kingmaker.
If the blade had accepted her, could I condemn her?
But did the blade accept her? I asked myself.
Arthur certainly believed she'd pulled the sword from the stone, but I hadn't seen it for myself.
Could it be a simple misunderstanding? Had Arthur really seen what he believed he had?
With the dragon taking up residence within him, he was changed.
Perhaps his own mind couldn't be trusted any longer.
What was more, Arthur had said himself that the act of her pulling the sword could have been nothing more than magic, than artifice.
Perhaps it wasn't real. Wasn't true. Perhaps it was as much a lie as she, herself, was.
My hands clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms. Despite every reason to turn her in—despite every law she'd broken—every instinct I possessed told me to protect her.
"What has fucking happened to me?" I whispered, my voice hollow in the silence.
The answer came slowly, reluctantly. It had started long before I’d glimpsed her true form. With every trial, with every act of discipline and valor, I'd seen something in Lioran that called to me: courage, compassion, a rare steadiness of heart. And now I understood—it wasn’t Lioran I’d admired.
It was her.
Her strength, her bearing, her defiance in the face of impossible odds.
The truth I could no longer deny: my feelings were real. They always had been.
I couldn't sleep. The air hung thick with unsaid things. Tomorrow, I would watch her more closely. Try to find a way to speak with her alone. Not to accuse—but to understand.
That, at least, I could justify to Arthur. No knight should be condemned without cause. I had built my entire life on precision—on certainty. And I would not abandon that now.
But even that excuse, as noble as it sounded, rang hollow in my heart.
Because the truth—the most dangerous truth of all—was that I didn’t want her punished. I didn’t want her gone. I wanted her here. With me.
The revelation stole the breath from my lungs.
Was it desire? Yes. But it was also so much more than that.
She'd entered Camelot in secret. She'd lied, and I should have hated her for it.
But I didn’t.
I only wanted to understand her. I wanted to know why.
And in the quiet recesses of my mind, when I conjured the image of her softly whispering my name—my name—with an unmistakable yearning lacing her voice, her delicate head thrown back against the cool stone of her chamber in the dim light.
.. it dawned on me that she had already claimed a piece of me, something I might never hope to recover.