CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
-KAY-
I watched as the last of the knights returned from the Whispering Wilds, their laughter echoing through the courtyard as we all walked toward the Great Hall, which would soon be bustling with a feast in our honor.
Laughter echoed, with the exception of one pair.
Lancelot and Lioran walked in silence. And it was not a companionable silence. It was a tense one.
While the others crowded around one another, speaking of the quarry they’d caught and others they hadn’t, those two kept a careful distance.
I watched from the shadows, arms folded. The shift between them was obvious—comrades turned strangers.
Lancelot’s usual swagger had dulled, and his jaw was tight.
As I watched, his gaze skittered past Lioran more than once, then retreated immediately as if Lioran had burned him.
All the while, Lancelot radiated a storm of emotions: desire battling with confusion, attraction clashing with his rigid sense of identity.
I could almost taste it in the air—a blend of longing and fear swirling around him.
I almost laughed.
The great Lancelot—undone by a fellow knight.
If only he knew the truth.
She’s playing you beautifully, I thought, savoring the irony. Beneath Lioran’s armor beat a woman’s heart—and Lancelot hadn’t seen it. But I had. And I held that secret like a dagger at my hip, waiting for the moment it would cut deepest.
Information was power in Camelot, and this particular secret could destroy not just the mysterious Lioran but potentially Lancelot and Arthur as well, depending on how I wielded it.
As we all piled into the Great Hall, I continued to watch the two of them. Their eyes met—just briefly—but it was enough. A flicker of something passed between them. A pull. A warning. Regret and shame.
Ah, it was all too entertaining. The irony was delicious—Arthur’s greatest knight, the man who had never known defeat in battle, conquered by feelings he couldn’t name or understand.
Let the mighty Lancelot suffer through his crisis of identity a while longer, wrestling with desires that went against everything he thought he knew about himself.
Ah, the tragedy of it all. I wanted to laugh.
My lips curved into the faintest of smiles as I savored the spectacle unfolding before me. Every stolen glance between them, every moment of tension, every flicker of confusion across Lancelot’s usually confident features—it was a feast.
The knowledge I possessed was a blade waiting to be drawn. When the time was right—and I would know exactly when that moment arrived—I would ensure maximum damage to all involved.
Now that I knew Lioran's secret, I saw it everywhere. Her movements were too precise. Too measured. The way she held herself, guarded but not stiff—grace disguised as discipline.
How hadn’t I seen it sooner?
Because she was good. Because she knew how to disappear behind the armor. But Lancelot… Lancelot was responding to something he didn’t understand. Not just admiration. Not just confusion. Desire. And it was clearly tearing him apart.
Perfect.
I slipped into my usual seat in the room—close enough to watch, far enough to remain unseen.
Lioran sat across the room, laughing as Percival regaled her with some tale no doubt trivial and utterly uninteresting. What a complete dolt that one was—forever prattling on about his latest healing ventures or philosophical musings that would bore even the most patient listener to tears.
They sat near the great hearth, where the firelight softened her features in a way that made my teeth clench with irritation. Even disguised as she was, there remained something inherently feminine in the way she moved her hands while speaking, the graceful turn of her wrist as she gestured.
Gods, how I wanted to tear away that carefully constructed facade and see the woman beneath the disguise.
I was practically vibrating with the need to peel back each meticulously crafted layer and witness exactly what this spy looked like in her natural form.
For that was precisely what she was, wasn't she?
A spy, an infiltrator, a deception wrapped in chainmail and false bravado.
My fingers drummed against the wooden arm of my chair as I imagined the revelation.
What color was her hair in its natural form?
How did her face appear without its masculinity?
What was her true height, her real voice without the practiced deepening that fooled everyone else?
What did her body look like unclothed? Were her breasts large and round or petite?
Were her hips wide or narrow? And would her ass be wide or small?
Mostly I wondered if her cunt would be tight or if it had been used by many men before me.
For, of course, I would use my discovery to my advantage.
Women, in general, seemed to hold a collective distaste for me.
I was not a handsome man. This I knew to be true.
I hadn't been blessed with Lancelot's good looks, nor with Arthur's masculine draw.
Those few women who might entertain the notion of sharing my bed were not the types of women I would ever look upon with interest. No, my desires were far loftier; I craved the most stunning, the most shapely women—the types that made the hearts of every other man beat a little faster.
Women like Elenora—women who held an entire room enthralled in the palm of their hands.
Yet time and time again, I found myself on the sidelines, a mere spectator in the game of lust. I had to use my wit and wiles in order to get my cock into a woman.
But this particular woman—this Lioran or whatever the bloody hell her true name was—had my interest. I could only hope she was as beautiful as I imagined her to be.
The curiosity to see her true face gnawed at me like a physical ache, made worse by the fact that she sat mere yards away, completely unaware that her secret had already been discovered.
She thought herself so clever, so perfectly disguised, while I held the power to shatter her entire world with a single word.
Percival leaned forward with that earnest expression he wore like a permanent mask.
I had to wonder if he had discovered her secret.
As far as I knew, he spent more time with Lioran than anyone else did.
Was it possible he was crawling into her chamber at night, slaking his lust within her folds? It remained to be seen.
As I watched her, Lancelot stepped into her view. Of course, she looked upon him—just for a split second. Whatever Percival was bleating on about was lost to her in that moment. I could see the truth in her eyes. Then the mask settled back in place.
When Lancelot spoke, her head tilted—attention masked as indifference.
The corners of her mouth twitched, a smile born and killed in the same breath.
I'd seen it before—in court ladies trying not to stare too long at forbidden loves.
But never on a knight pretending to be a man. Never in a game this dangerous.
Their eyes met across the hall—then separated immediately.
Lancelot flushed. A ghost of red climbed his neck. A slip.
Interesting, I mused, swirling the wine in my goblet. How deliciously uncomfortable for him.
Of course, I wondered what had transpired between him and Lioran in the forest. How far had they taken their attraction for one another?
Clearly, Lancelot did not know her secret—if he had, she would be in the dungeon.
But something had happened between them, of that I was certain.
Perhaps a kiss? Perhaps Lioran had taken Lancelot's cock into her mouth and sucked him to completion, and now, in the cold light of the aftermath, he was realizing his mistake?
My attention sharpened as Elenora—Lancelot's favorite wench—sauntered toward him in that way of hers that drove all the men mad with want. As far as I knew, the only man she'd allowed into her bed was Lancelot, though she certainly paid attention to Lioran as well.
As I watched her, she moved with hips swaying, gown clinging in all the right places. Men watched her with hunger. Women with calculation.
Elenora’s lips curled, her gaze dripping confidence. On any other evening, Lancelot would have already pulled her onto his thighs, hands wandering, tongue loosed by wine and arrogance.
But tonight?
He didn't even seem to notice she was there.
And that… was interesting.
When she reached for him, he stiffened. His hands—once so eager, so sure—rose between them like a shield. Not seductive. But defensive. I caught the tremor in his fingers. Subtle. Telling.
He wasn’t rejecting Elenora. He was rejecting himself.
“Not tonight,” I could read his lips.
The silence cracked.
Elenora’s smile wavered—just for a moment—before she tossed her hair with a brittle flourish.
Then she slid toward Agravaine, who welcomed her with the hunger of a man used to feasting on scraps.
His hand landed on her waist, more claim than invitation.
She dropped into his lap like victory incarnate, throwing a pointed glance back at Lancelot.
A move. A message. A punishment.
But Lancelot didn't notice, for his attention was on Lioran—always on Lioran. That is, until Lioran caught his eye; then Lancelot immediately looked away. Ah, the spectacle of it all. What a fascinating evening.
I laughed. Sharp. Unapologetic. A few heads turned. Let them. They would laugh too if they knew the ravaging truth I possessed. A truth that could unmake Lancelot.
The golden knight of Camelot, turning down a willing woman… while pining for someone he believed to be a man?
Oh, the delicious irony of it all.
The secret pressed against my ribs like a blade I couldn’t wait to unsheathe. One truth. One whisper. That’s all it would take to burn this illusion to the ground.
And I would be the one holding the match.