Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mordred
Mordred Pendragon had very much meant it when he said he would give the Druid girl whatever she wanted. And so, he tore away the binding on Nyneve’s baneful magic, driving into her at the same moment.
She threw her head back, eyes closed, mouth parted as she moaned his name.
Pleasure pounded in his own body as the mortal woman he was irrevocably in love with cried out, riding the wave of her release.
When she finally came back down, he tangled one hand in her hair, finding himself unable to do anything but gaze at her magnificence.
“How does it feel?” he murmured, dragging the pad of his thumb over her lower lip.
The way her soft body pressed against his was so perfect he wanted to forget everything else.
She let out a long sigh, meeting his gaze.
There had always been a wild depth to her eyes in some lights, not wholly unlike the gleam of a rabid animal’s gaze, but it was utterly undeniable now.
“Thank you,” Nyneve panted, trailing her fingers along his jaw. She blinked away tears. “Coel’s death will haunt me for the rest of my life. But it was an accident.”
He lowered his head to press a kiss to her sternum. “I can remove the binding,” Mordred murmured, “but I cannot convince you to stop punishing yourself.”
She chewed on her lip, looking away from him. “I know,” she whispered eventually. When her eyes slid back to meet his gaze, she smiled, reaching out to run her hand down his chest. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you like this. Not since that night.”
Something that might have been happiness surged in Mordred’s chest, forcing the eternal dark to make room. “Every time I close my eyes,” he murmured, beginning to make soft, slow circles between her legs, “I see you astride me, looking like some long-lost goddess.”
She sighed and rolled her hips into his hand, seeking more of his touch, which made Mordred ravenous in turn. “Would you like,” Nyneve began, “to see me astride you with your eyes open?”
His breath hitched as she smiled up at him innocently, doe-like. “Gods, yes,” Mordred murmured.
She grinned at him. “Get on your back.”
The knight did not require further instruction.
He banded his arm around her waist and rolled them both over, sliding his hands to her hips as she sat up.
“You drive me mad,” Mordred groaned as she took him deeper, her long curls tumbling over one shoulder.
He cupped her heavy breasts in his hands, teasing her nipples, and Nyneve let out one of those breathless little sounds he loved so much.
Her eyes strayed to his when she placed both hands on his chest and ground herself against him, harder and harder.
“Yes,” he rasped when she brought her mouth to his, sliding her tongue into his mouth. “Steal whatever remains of my sanity, little thief. You already have my heart.”
“I have all of you, Mordred,” Nyneve said against his lips.
“You belong to me.” She pushed back then, riding him hard, but he could not stand to be so far from her.
With a sharp contraction of muscle, he sat up, holding her in his lap and tangling his hands in her curls.
Nyneve met his kiss with a wild hunger, her powerful thighs flexing.
“You take me so well,” he murmured into her neck. “You are perfect, Nyneve Or’Afon.” It was true. He could barely believe how impossibly good she felt, as if they had been made for each other from the same primordial darkness.
It was helpful that the Fair Folk did not require much sleep, because the meadow-eyed sorceress seemed intent on proving she did, indeed, have all of him, for many hours into the night.
When dawn scattered its golden rays through Mordred’s window, Nyneve was awake but drowsy in his arms. He could barely believe that what he saw was real: her head pillowed on his shoulder, one arm slung over his stomach, her glorious body bare, linens kicked down around her calves.
The light of the dawn seemed to worship her curves as much as he did, kissing the pale gold of her waist and hips.
Mordred pulled her close, unwilling to share, and she stirred.
When her eyes met his, she smiled shyly. “Good,” Nyneve murmured, hooking one leg around his hips before closing her eyes again.
“Good?” Mordred echoed with a smile.
“I was worried it might be a dream,” the sorceress admitted, her eyes still closed. He watched with amusement as a blush spread on the side of her face.
“If you need such a worry utterly disproven . . .” he murmured, sliding his hand from her hip to her lower stomach. She let out a little gasp, her breasts pressing into his side.
“How generous of you,” Nyneve replied, her lips moving against his shoulder.
She pushed off one arm to sit up halfway, looking down at him, her hair hanging like a metallic curtain.
Unable to satiate his desire for her, Mordred took her jaw between his fingers and kissed her deeply.
He might have never surfaced from her currents if not for the desperate knock that sounded at his door.
“Mordred?” called Lysanor, an edge to her tone that he rarely heard in the unflappable handmaiden’s voice.
He exchanged a worried glance with Nyneve, and then they both bolted to their feet, pulling on their clothing. Yanking his tunic over his head, he glanced back at Nyneve, who was still lacing her kirtle. “Answer it!” she hissed, gesturing toward the door before returning to her garment.
Mordred pulled the door open, a little out of breath, to find not only Lysanor but Guinevere at his door. “What happened?” he asked, looking between the two women. His stomach twisted at the sight of their expressions.
“Arthur is announcing the results of the inquiry into Elaine’s murder,” Guinevere said, a muscle in her jaw leaping. “Now.”
Mordred blinked once. Then he reached for his boots and shoved his feet into them. “As in publicly announcing?” he demanded, his heart beginning to race.
“The court is to gather in the throne room,” Lysanor said, looking toward Guinevere. The queen stood tall as always, her shoulders straight and steady, hands clasped in front of her, but Mordred could see her fingers trembling.
“Arthur did not consult me,” he warned, reaching for his aketon.
“Nor me,” Guinevere said, her voice breaking.
Nyneve appeared beside him, gathering her hair into a braid. Neither the queen nor her handmaiden looked even remotely surprised by her presence.
Mordred could not deny the comfort in having her at his side. Warmth bloomed in that cold place within his chest.
“So let us go,” Nyneve breathed, meeting Guinevere’s gaze.
The queen nodded and turned down the hallway, her stride purposeful.
Lysanor followed, picking up the hem of Guinevere’s gown, Mordred and Nyneve trailing behind.
As they entered the great hall, Mordred caught sight of Molly across the vast space.
Her gaze was set on the closed doors of the throne room, her arms crossed.
During the invasions, Mordred had seen Molly kill a spy in the kitchen tent with a butcher knife. She had wiped the blade off on her apron, turned back to the table, and continued to chop vegetables as if nothing had happened.
But now, for the first time in all the years he had known her, far from the fields of war, Molly looked afraid.
Unease clamped down on Mordred’s stomach.
Was this how it began? Had he confessed his feelings for Nyneve just for the end to be nigh?
Gods, he was a selfish creature. He clenched his jaw, coming to a halt behind Guinevere when they reached the throne room’s antechamber, its entry guarded by Bedwyr and Lancelot.
“I will find you later,” Nyneve whispered in his ear. She gave his hand a single squeeze and then followed Lysanor to gather in the great hall with the rest of Camelot’s court. Mordred felt cold and empty in her absence. Perhaps that was a good thing, considering what he was about to face.
Lancelot stepped aside at the sight of his queen and Mordred, but Bedwyr hesitated, only moving out of the way when Guinevere glowered at him. Mordred numbly followed the queen down the short, dark corridor into the antechamber, letting out a sigh of relief when he saw Merlin was not in the room.
Arthur was alone, dressed in his formal burgundy aketon, scanning a parchment that Mordred could not read from across the room.
Gray light poured in from the windows, the stone floors dappled by the shadows of trees swaying in the wind outside.
The hearth was unlit, though candles sputtered on the mantel, the smell of beeswax filling the room.
The king looked up as they entered, his gaze finding Mordred first. He smiled grimly at the knight, his eyes filled with a defiant warmth.
The cold pit of ice in Mordred’s chest cracked.
It was the exact expression Arthur wore every time they found each other at the end of a battle, exhausted and mud-splattered, as the king wrapped his arms around Mordred and thanked the gods they had both survived.
And perhaps that was why for a foolish, stupid moment, the faerie knight thought everything might be all right in the end.
“What are you doing?” Guinevere demanded, striding over to where Arthur stood by the window. “We have not discussed the results of this inquiry, and yet you have ordered the entire court to gather.”
Some of the warmth left Arthur’s eyes. He looked between his queen and the changeling who had taken his son’s place, unspeaking. A great and terrible sadness settled onto his brow. Reaching out to brush Guinevere’s shoulder, the king drew a deep breath.
“Please trust me,” Arthur said imploringly. “I cannot say anything more. But please. I beg you. Trust me.”