CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO #2
I had never experienced such consuming hunger for a woman, and I was convinced I would never want anyone as I wanted her.
The need clawed at me from within, demanding satisfaction, demanding her surrender beneath my hands.
Perhaps if I fucked her—claimed her body thoroughly, made her cry out my name until her voice was raw—this maddening desire would finally release its stranglehold on me?
The dragon stirred at the thought, sending waves of scorching heat through me.
Yes. We must take her. Make her ours. Let her feel our fire until she burns for us alone.
This was something deeper than simple desire. It was something far, far more.
So turn that desire into something that benefits you, I told myself as the possibilities began to spin inside my mind.
If she truly was Merlin's blood, her value as a hostage was beyond calculation.
The Twilight Sovereign had demonstrated repeatedly his willingness to sacrifice for his grand designs—but would he sacrifice his own child?
This leverage might force concessions I'd never dared hope for.
Yet keeping her alive carried risks that made my strategist's mind recoil.
Even confined in the deepest dungeon of Camelot, her existence threatened the foundation of everything I'd built over two decades of rule.
If the sword had truly chosen her and it wasn't an example of her magic—if Excalibur had responded to her touch when it had rejected mine—this wasn't merely a problem.
It was an existential threat to my kingdom, my legacy, and my identity as Logres' rightful ruler.
And she'd seen the dragon.
She couldn't be permitted to live.
Rage surged through me without warning—hot, consuming, a firestorm beneath my skin.
In a single, furious motion, my arm swept across the massive oak desk, sending a storm of parchment into the air.
Maps, letters, and intelligence reports—documents I'd studied relentlessly—scattered like frightened birds.
Inkwells shattered against stone, black veins of liquid spreading across the floor like blood in the cracks of a battlefield.
The golden seal of the Pendragon—a dragon in mid-roar—rolled from the wreckage and came to rest against the hearth, its eye catching the firelight as though it watched me... and judged.
The violence of the outburst left silence in its wake.
I stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched at my sides.
This type of raw, ungoverned fury was a luxury I hadn't permitted myself in years.
A king could not afford such indulgence.
Emotion, when visible, became leverage. Weakness invited whispers.
And yet here I was, trembling from the aftershocks of my own fury, all because of a single woman—one I had allowed far too close.
This is what she does to you, I thought, staring at the wreckage I'd created. Even when she’s not here, she unravels you.
The realization landed like a blow.
This wasn’t just betrayal; it was exposure.
I crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps and stood before the great mirror that occupied the far wall. The man staring back at me wore the armor of a legend: the Golden King of Logres, hero of two wars, bearer of Caliburn. Regal. Commanding. The very image of control.
But beneath that polished exterior, I saw the truth.
My eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with shadows.
My jaw was clenched. My shoulders were tight with tension I could no longer disguise.
A crack had formed in the armor—and through it, the real Arthur was seeping through.
Not the king, but the man. Betrayed. Wounded. Obsessed.
"My father would have executed her immediately," I told my reflection, the words emerging as barely more than a whisper. "No hesitation, no public trial, just a quick end to the threat."
Would he have fucked her first? Most likely. Probably more than once. But then he would have seen to what needed to be done. And he would have done it—swiftly and without regret.
The thought brought me no comfort. Despite my occasional longing for Uther's decisive brutality, I'd spent my entire reign attempting to be a different kind of king—one who relied on law rather than arbitrary power, on justice rather than expedience.
I'd built Camelot's peace on the foundation of consistent rule, not the capricious whims that had characterized my father's bloody tenure. The people feared me, yes, but they also knew where they stood—a certainty that had never existed under Uther's unpredictable rage.
So, why had I told one of the guards to bring her to my chamber? What possible justification could I offer for this private audience that wouldn't undermine everything I'd established? The invisible crown weighed heavier on my brow as I paced across the stone floor.
At the sound of a tentative knock on my door, I froze mid-stride, my pulse quickening traitorously. Drawing a deep breath to steady myself, I crossed the room in three long strides and thrust the heavy oak door open with more force than necessary.
"The prisoner, Your Majesty," the guard announced, his eyes deliberately fixed on some distant point beyond us both, his stance rigid with barely concealed tension. He was afraid of me, just as they all were.
And for good reason.
She stood there in the doorway, still wrapped in my cloak.
The heavy material, lined with ermine, emphasized the elegant curve of her throat rising from its depths, the proud, defiant set of her shoulders that refused to bow even in my presence.
The cloak dwarfed her smaller frame, pooling around her feet on the cold stone floor, yet somehow she wore it with the bearing of a queen rather than a prisoner.
Her hair spilled over the fur-lined collar in waves that caught the amber light from the hearth, and those eyes met mine with an unwavering gaze that immediately stoked the dragon.
There was something achingly beautiful about seeing her wrapped in my colors, in fabric that bore my scent, as if she already belonged to me in ways that defied explanation or reason.
Wrap her in our shadows.
I reached for her, my fingers encircling her arm.
The heat of her skin blazed through the heavy material, sending an unwelcome jolt through me.
I drew her into my chambers and, nodding to the guard, closed the heavy oak door behind us.
The sound reverberated through the room like thunder, like fate itself marking the moment I cast aside all pretense of proper conduct.
"My king," she began, her voice carrying that blend of defiance and submission that had haunted my thoughts since our first encounter.
But I couldn't bear to hear whatever careful lies she had prepared.
Taste her.
In two measured steps, I had her pressed against the cold stone wall, my arms braced on either side of her head, creating an inescapable cage around her slender form. My mouth crashed down on hers with desperate hunger, swallowing her startled gasp and the protest that died on her lips.
Her hands flew up to my chest; whether to push me away or pull me closer, I couldn't tell. The dragon roared its approval, flooding my veins with liquid fire that demanded I take more, claim more, possess everything she was.
Beautiful little offering.
When I finally pulled back, we were both panting. Her lips were swollen, her eyes wide with something that might have been desire or might have been fear—or perhaps both.
"I don't understand," she started, her voice barely above a whisper as she shook her head, trying to pull away from me even as her body remained pliant. The movement sent her hair over one shoulder, revealing the elegant curve of her neck.
"What is there to understand?"
"I thought you wanted me dead?"
I chuckled without humor. "You stupid girl."
I didn't want her dead. My body betrayed me with an unwelcome memory—the feel of her at the lake, the way she'd surrendered to me in one heartbeat and challenged me in the next.
"Get on your knees."
She dropped to her knees without hesitation, the movement graceful despite the heavy cloak pooling around her. Those eyes—Gods, those fucking eyes—never left mine as she settled on the cold stone floor.
Yes. Kneel for us.
I unlaced my braies with hands that trembled from restraint rather than uncertainty, freeing my cock.
It jutted toward her, already hard and aching from hours, days, weeks of wanting her.
Her gaze dropped immediately, fixing on my length with the absolute expression of desire, of need.
Her expression sent heat scorching through me, making my prick even harder.
The hunger in her expression wasn't feigned. I'd seen enough courtly seduction to recognize artifice, and this wasn't it. Her lips parted slightly, her breath coming faster as she stared at what I offered.
"Open your mouth."
She obeyed, tongue flattening behind her bottom teeth, creating the perfect cradle for me to claim. I guided the swollen head between her lips, groaning at the first touch of wet heat against my flesh.
"I'm going to fuck your mouth." The words emerged as a growl, my free hand tangling in her hair, gripping hard enough to make her gasp around me. "And you're going to take every inch like the good little prisoner you are."
I pulled her forward, driving my cock deep until she gagged, then withdrew only to thrust in again. Her throat constricted around me, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as I used her mouth.
"Cry for me," I groaned, holding her hair even harder. "Show me your fucking tears."
The wet sounds of her struggles only fueled my need.
Mate her cunt! Fill her with our seed!
But I wasn't going to give in to the dragon's demands. What I needed right now was the ability to think straight. And this was going to give it to me.