Wicked Games

by Angela Knight

  “Am I a violent, jealous fool, incapable of recognizing that the greatest of my knights committed no crime?”

  “No, sire, but I’ve . . .”

  “Am I so lost to human compassion I can’t understand a moment of weakness I knew myself but three days before?”

  “Of course not, but . . .”

  “Am I so bloody stupid I would deprive myself of my greatest knight going into a civil war that may destroy my kingdom?”

  “You have ten other knights who more than match my skills.”

  “Am I in the habit of flattering you, Lord Lancelot?”

  “No, sire.”

  “Then quit fucking questioning my judgment!” His lip curled. “It grows tiresome.”

  Another man—including many of those who occupied the Round Table—would have flinched in the face of Arthur’s royal fury. Lancelot simply knelt there, as erect as a sword blade.

  “Talk to him, Gwen. Make him see reason, or cast a spell on him, I care not. Just do something before I lose my mind and knock his teeth down his throat.”

  Unfortunately, she knew talking to Lancelot was an exercise in futility, given the spell she’d cast on his memory. She had to break that spell before he’d be willing to listen to reason. But when she reached for his face to begin the counterspell, he jerked away. His gaze met hers with such pain, betrayal, and fury, the emotional impact felt like a blow from his fist.

  “She does not deserve your rage, du Lac,” Arthur ground out. “She only tried to save your ungrateful life. Gwen . . .”

  But when she tried once again to cast the spell to reverse her magic, she slammed right into a mental wall, a psychic fortress around his consciousness built of rage, guilt.

  And most of all a sense that she’d betrayed him as much as Arthur by using him to force the Truebond her spell insisted she’d wanted.

  As her heart sank, she realized Lancelot’s mind was locked beyond the reach of hers, in a mental fortress more impregnable than Camelot’s stone walls. One thought sliced through his furious mistrust: I loved you. All these years, I loved you, and you did this to me.

  Gwen stared at him, feeling sick. He didn’t drop his eyes. Desperately she fought to penetrate his mental barriers, but she couldn’t get through.

  Finally Arthur had enough. “Get out of here, du Lac, before I forget our years of friendship.”

  Lance rose without a word and stalked out. The cell door closed behind him with such exquisite control, it barely made a sound.

  The king sighed. “Maybe Merlin can undo the spell. Lance is not going to let you in. Period.”

  Gwen looked up at her husband, bewildered. “I had no idea he felt that way.”

  “I did. I’ve known for years. There were times when he looked at you, and his face lit with the same kind of love I feel. I also knew he’d never act on how he felt, which was why I was so pissed off when it seemed I’d been wrong.”

  “But you weren’t.”

  “No. But he’s crazy if he thinks it’s that easy to fall out of love with you. God knows I couldn’t do it.”

  • • •

  The following night, the Knights of the Round Table gathered to train. Arthur had led his men in training sessions on a daily basis for years, but this one was very different from the ones that had come before. They were Magi now, and they had to learn how to combine their formidable sword skills with their new supernatural strength.

  “Having power does no good without the knowledge of how to use it,” Merlin told them as they stood or crouched, listening. “It becomes too easy to overshoot your target, to try to leap over a blade only to come down on top of someone else’s instead. There are also your other magical talents, like shape-shifting into wolf form. Used strategically, these abilities can make all the difference in battle—but only if you know how to use them.”

  He called Marrok over to demonstrate. The big knight was more than a foot taller than the wizard, and likely outweighed him by nine stone or better. He should have been able to break the boyish sorcerer like a rotten twig.

  Instead, Merlin attacked in a furious blur, his sword licking out with such speed, Marrok was obviously hard-pressed even to see where it was, much less block it with his shield. The big knight was forced into a retreat, crouching behind his shield as Merlin’s attacks dented it with their raw power.

  Until Marrok’s dark eyes narrowed with an expression his fellow knights knew well. He was beginning to lose his temper—and that meant trouble for whomever he faced. His rages in combat, combined with his size and strength, made him a man to be feared.

  He attacked, barreling toward Merlin, who leaped back, simultaneously driving his shield into Marrok’s sword so hard, the weapon snapped, its pieces cartwheeling into the moonlight. Before the big knight could retreat, the wizard had his blade pressed against Marrok’s throat.

  “As you are now, few men could defeat you—unless you defeat yourself through clumsiness or miscalculation,” Merlin said softly, not taking his eyes off Marrok.

  When the big knight backed up, his empty sword hand lifted in surrender, the wizard turned toward the watching warriors. “Pair off. I would suggest beginning your practice with hand-to-hand, until you have a better sense of what you’re doing.”

  • • •

  Up on the balustrade, Gwen watched with the eleven other ladies who’d received Merlin’s Gift. She knew all of them well. Morgana, of course. Elaine, Fenice, Iblis, Lynet, Tyra, Yserone, Vivien, Prydwyn, Lunet, and Diera.

  “Mmmmm,” Diera purred as the men faced off hand to hand. “That looks like thirsty work. I don’t know about you ladies, but I’m looking forward to helping someone either celebrate his victory or lick his wounds.”

  “More like lick your wounds,” Iblis shot back, snapping her teeth in a mimed bite.

  “I’d like to lick Tristan’s wounds,” Vivien murmured wickedly.

  “Tristan’s married, Viv,” Diera reminded her.

  “Barely,” Vivien retorted. “Isolde failed her challenge, and she’s pissed that Tristan didn’t—and accepted the Grail anyway. She’s left him. Left Camelot, come to that. They say she’s gone home to her parents’ holding.” The Maja sighed, her sad tone in contrast to the heat in her eyes. “Poor Tristan. All alone and hungry. Whoever shall he eat?”

  “Viv, you are such a slut.” Iblis shook her head.

  “Oh, come on, just look at him. So blond and big and good with his blade . . .” A roll of her hips said the weapon she spoke of was not the one in his scabbard.

  As her women traded gossip and good-natured raillery, Gwen straightened, her gaze on her husband.

  Arthur strode across the courtyard, headed right for Lancelot, his eyes narrow. The twisted grin on his face suggested he was looking forward to burning off some of the frustrated rage Gwen knew he’d felt since she’d landed them in this mess.

  “Looks like the king is in a mood,” Fenice observed. “This should be good.”

  Gwen knew what she meant. The Knights of the Round Table—including Arthur—were as prone toward getting angry at each other as anyone else. They’d always used the combat practices as an opportunity to burn off any resentment and anger they felt so it didn’t grow into a problem.

  Of course, as king, Arthur could have used his authority to punish his men in other ways—and did on occasion, at least with lapses of discipline he considered more serious. But his current problem with Lance was personal, and he obviously wanted to solve it in a more personal way: by giving his champion that threatened arse-kicking.

  Judging by the set of Lance’s broad shoulders as he watched his king’s advance, the knight was in the mood to give him a fight. Normally, of course, the champion wouldn’t even consider offering resistance to anything Arthur cared to do to him. However, when it came to practice combat, the king had given his men standing orders not to hold back when they fought him. “I can assure you, neither the Saxons nor Varn and his rebels will hesitate to slit my throat—if they
can.”

  So now Lancelot took him at his word. With a bellow of rage, the champion bounded into the air to come down on the king like an avalanche.

  Everyone—knights, ladies, Gwen, even Merlin—froze in shock.

  But Arthur had never been anyone’s idea of easy prey, even before his transformation. Now . . .

  He kicked his champion squarely in the belly. Lance went flying, hit the ground rolling, and bounced to his feet to launch another attack. The two men collided with a meaty thud and a chorus of snarled curses that sounded more animal than human. Blocking, punching, kicking, they traded brutal blows.

  “Sweet mother goddess,” Morgana breathed at Gwen’s shoulder, “I wouldn’t have expected Lance to put up that much of a fight after he . . .” She broke off, as if belatedly remembering who she was talking to.

  “Lancelot blames me,” Gwen told her softly. “But since he can’t punish me, he’s taking it out on Arthur.”

  “Is he insane?” Tyra demanded. “He’s lucky the king didn’t kill him.”

  “I’m not sure Lance sees that as ‘lucky.’” Feeling the eyes of her women locked on her in speculation, Gwen pointedly ignored them. Still, her cheeks grew hot.

  Morgana’s hand fell on her shoulder in a comforting squeeze. Bless her. There was a reason she was Gwen’s dearest friend, Arthur’s old lover or not.

  Yet within minutes, Gwen had forgotten her discomfort in her fascination with the fight. It was hardly the first time she’d seen the two men go at it, even with one of them enraged about something.

  This was different. Not least because she had the uncomfortable feeling neither of them was fully in control. They fought with such blurring speed and brutal force, it wasn’t long before arcs of blood flew. There was an animal savagery to their attacks that was as fascinating as it was horrifying. More than once, Gwen nearly begged Merlin to put a stop to it.

  She’d lifted one hand to cast a spell of her own when Morgana caught her wrist. “Don’t, Gwen. You’ll only make it worse,” her friend said so softly, she doubted anyone else could hear. “If you let them work through it, maybe they can save their friendship.”

  Knowing she was right, Gwen let her hand fall and the magic bleed away. Then, driven by sheer dark fascination, she reached for the Truebond.

  It was like being swept up in a raging ocean storm. Fury burned in Arthur, an incandescent need to make the knight pay. Not only for taking Gwen, but for hurting her, forcing her to embrace her own destruction in an effort to save Lance’s life. For putting Arthur himself in the position of damn near killing the woman he loved. And for having the goddamned arrogance to blame her for all of it.

  He wanted Lance’s head. He wouldn’t take it, but he wanted it. Wanted to make Lance suffer as he’d suffered, as Gwen herself was still suffering.

  “Arthur, it’s not his fault!”

  “I don’t give a shit. He’s lucky I don’t fuck him up the arse. And I may do it yet.”

  Then Arthur threw her out of his head.

  She actually staggered and would have fallen, if Morgana hadn’t caught her arm and held her up until she managed to get her feet under herself again.

  “Are you all right?” the healer asked softly.

  “Fine,” Gwen murmured, though she was shaken—and more than a little frightened.

  Down in the courtyard, Arthur and Lance circled, crouched, watching each other with a black hostility that made her cringe.

  Then Arthur turned into a wolf.

  One minute he was a man. The next, a magic boiled around him, knocking him to all fours as his powerful body twisted, vanishing into a swarm of sparks. The sparks coalesced into a glowing, four-legged shape. When the glittering cloud vanished a heartbeat later, a muscular beast the size of a pony had taken his place. The wolf’s thick fur was the same shining black as Arthur’s hair. A couple of Gwen’s ladies screamed in shock and horror as he leaped for Lance’s throat.

  “No, Arthur!” Gwen yelled.

  Morgana grabbed her forearm and dug in her nails. “Hush,” she hissed. “Don’t give the gossips more ammunition.”

  Gwen scarcely heard her. With a startled shout, Lance had gone down beneath Arthur’s vicious attack.

  Magic flared, and suddenly there were two wolves, rolling and snarling and ripping at one another. Blood flew until even the Knights of the Round Table stepped back from their lethal violence.

  Belatedly, Gwen realized Arthur might be in just as much danger from Lance as the other way around. She forgot her worry for her friend in fear for her husband. “Damn you, Lance, back the hell away!”

  “That’s more like it,” Morgana muttered. Gwen ignored her.

  The black wolf’s jaws locked onto his opponent’s brown-furred throat. Lance snarled, twisting, clawing, trying to rip free, but he couldn’t break Arthur’s hold. Gradually his struggles weakened, until he stopped moving at all. Alarmed, Gwen reached out with her magical senses and realized he still lived; Arthur had simply choked him unconscious.

  The black beast released him. Gold sparks wove across the furry brown body, and Lancelot was human again, sprawled unconscious on his back. His throat was now undamaged, but he was obviously still out cold.

  Gwen blew out a breath and slumped in relief.

  Only to tense again when the black wolf turned and looked up at her with feral eyes. Arthur flashed to human form in an explosion of gold. Taking three running steps, he leaped fifteen feet straight up to the balustrade as Gwen’s ladies scattered. Snatching her into his arms, the king strode toward their chambers.

  Behind them, Diera said, “Lucky bitch.”

  “Diera!”

  “As if you weren’t thinking the same thing, Tyra, you little prig.”

  Arthur laughed wickedly and kicked the door closed.

  ELEVEN

  You and I are going to have a little talk about this habit you’ve acquired of trying to protect du Lac from me,” Arthur told Gwen. “Especially since the one who really needs protection is you.” Putting her down, he stripped off her belt, overskirt, and tunic, tossing them carelessly aside. Lifting her again, he pinned her against the wall and grinned down into her eyes. “Speaking of which, I think I figured out how to fuck you up your arse without fucking me up mine.” His smile was distinctly menacing. His nostrils flared as if scenting her, and his brows lifted. “Why, Guinevere Pendragon—I think you like it when I threaten you.”

  She swallowed, feeling her nipples tighten with arousal. “So do you.”

  He laughed, the sound a bit nasty. “Oh, no, darling—I like carrying out the threats.”

  “You’ve always been a bit of a bastard.”

  “And you’d do well not to forget it.” His eyes narrowed. “And even better to stop defending du Lac.” Wrapping a fist in her hair, he dragged her head back and raked the points of his fangs along the pulse in her throat. “Shall I bite your throat—or one of those sweet little nipples?”

  She swallowed. “Brute.”

  “We’ve already established you like my brutality.” His mouth closed over a nipple for one of those delicious, tongue-swirling sucks he did so well, his big hands supporting her as if she weighed no more than one of her gowns. She locked her ankles around his waist and her arms around his neck, letting herself savor his delicious attentions.

  It felt so good to have him make love to her again instead of fucking her out of vengeance and pain.

  “Don’t be so quick to assume I’ve finished punishing you,” Arthur rumbled, his dark eyes flashing up to meet hers. “I may have made my point to du Lac in front of the whole court, but you will not escape so easily.”

  She stared at him, her heart sinking. After the Truebond, she’d hoped the damage to their marriage had been mended. “I thought you understood.” Her voice sounded thin and hoarse to her own ears.

  “Oh, I understand, but I don’t like it. And, no, you are most definitely not forgiven.” His mouth crashed down on hers in a devouring kiss. His tongue plu
nged into her mouth, and he caught her lower lip in his teeth hard enough to prick it with the points of his fangs. His hips rolled between her thighs, letting her feel the thick ridge of his cock against her belly.

  But in that moment, all she felt was pain. She kissed him back, tasting salt as one of her own tears rolled into the corner of her mouth. “Oh, Arthur, God, Arthur . . .”

  “What did you expect? You’re the other half of my very soul, and you ripped out my heart by the roots.”

  Bracing her back against the wall, he caught one of her wrists and peeled her arm from around his neck, then pinned it behind her, supporting her back with that arm. Automatically, she tried to pull free, but it felt like his grip had turned to solid steel. For a moment, she stared, stricken, into his face as a muscle worked in his strong jaw. Then he spun them away from the wall.

  And let her drop.

  She yelped as her upper torso fell backward, only to snap to a stop, supported by her legs wrapped around his waist and the big male hand gripping her wrist behind her back. She dangled there, her upper body arched painfully, her right hand planted on the floor, keeping her head from rapping against it. Helpless, caught. Utterly at his mercy.

  With her heart pounding ferociously in her ears, it took Gwen a moment to realize he had a better hold on her than she’d thought. One arm wrapped around her hips while the other held her arm, supporting her back in the process. “Damn you, Arthur!” She twisted her head back to eye the floor. It was definitely too close to her head. “What are you doing?”

  “Put your knees over my shoulders.” His voice was a velvet rumble, but his hard gaze made his words an order.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?” That fine jaw muscle ticked again. “Gwen, I’ll not drop you no matter how angry I am.”

  She stared at his handsome, implacable face. That cold black gaze said one thing, but the thick cock rubbing against her crotch said something else again. “I don’t believe I like this game of yours, Arthur.”

  “That is too bad. Am I in the habit of giving an order twice?”