Chapter 23

Lancelot’s POV

He stood on the doorway, blocking any way out. He spoke softly, so softly, that I thought it might have been the wind. His hands, rough from a day’s work, held a glass of wine with such finesse. His stare was fixed on me, and it send chills down my spine. I sat on the bed-- his bed-- wondering when this waiting game would end. It's not as if being with him was a bad thing, but that it had to end sooner or later. The dread that followed every encounter frustrated me.

His delicate features beguiled the roughness of his body. The scars I've seen were evident of hard labor. His demeanor betrayed all the scarring, all the hardness that one was entitled after strenuous work. He was a walking contradiction.

He walked towards me, glass in hand, with intention to join the bedside. I let him do as he wanted, noting that there was no hesitation in his steps. His hand made a detour on the a