The latch had barely clicked shut behind Rowena when Maeve stepped out of the shadows, arms crossed over her chest, green eyes glittering with the sort of quiet, dark amusement that usually presaged an inconvenient fire.
Mordred groaned, letting Secret of Pedigree dissolve.
The horned iron melted back into her pauldrons with a soft, metallic whisper, leaving her golden hair free and the purple bruise across her cheek exposed to the hearthlight.
“You heard every word,” Mordred muttered.
“Every single one.” Maeve’s smile was slow and sharp.
“The castle steward’s pet scribe already seeks to take stock of your bedchamber.
How very diligent.”
Maeve drifted closer, her gaze lingering on the heavy oak door before settling back on Mordred.
A faint crease touched her brow—the rare sign of a druid attempting to compute the habits of castle folk—though it did nothing to soften the amusement in her expression.
“She watches people the way old hounds watch a fresh scent,” Maeve said, reaching up to brush a loose strand of golden hair behind Mordred’s ear.
“Never wasted a word, and looked at you as though she had already calculated three answers before asking the first question.
I do not dislike her, which is terribly inconvenient.”
“Maeve.”
“I am merely observing.” She glided closer, bare feet completely silent on the woven rug.
“Now strip.
You reek of sweat, sand, and solar magic.
I will not have my lord climb into clean sheets smelling like a tournament yard.”
Mordred opened her mouth to protest, then shut it.
Her ribs still ached.
Her collarbone throbbed.
And the prospect of hot water sounded dangerously close to divine intervention.
“…Fine.
But no poisoning anyone tonight.”
Maeve’s answering hum was noncommittal in the way only people who knew three dozen edible roots could manage.
A large copper tub already waited near the hearth, steam curling upward in lazy spirals.
How Maeve had managed to haul and heat enough water for a full bath without a single castle servant noticing remained one of those quiet mysteries best left unexamined by anyone who valued their sanity.
Mordred had long since learned that asking questions only invited lengthy lectures on forest hospitality.
She peeled off the rest of her gear with stiff fingers.
The padded gambeson hit the floorboards with a heavy thud, followed by linen and the last of her hose.
Cool night air hit bare skin, revealing dark plum bruises blooming across her ribs and sternum like ink spilled under parchment.
Maeve’s expression darkened for a single heartbeat—a flash of quiet, ancient malice that suggested someone, somewhere, was going to suffer a sudden bout of hemlock—before softening again.
“In,” she ordered softly.
Maeve waited until Mordred settled beneath the surface before dipping her fingers into the bath.
Soft green light shimmered beneath the water, spreading in slow, warm ripples before fading from sight.
“The herbs will draw the swelling down before morning,” she said, resting her forearm against the copper rim.
“Bruises heal well enough on their own, but deep ones have a habit of lying about how broken they really are.”
Mordred sank into the warmth with a long sigh, letting the heat sink deep into her battered muscles while her head tipped back against the rim.
Maeve knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
She dipped a soft cloth into the steaming water, worked a lather of lavender and crushed nightshade between her palms, and set to work.
She started at Mordred’s shoulders, firm circles working the tension out of the muscle before moving down the arms and across the collarbones—careful, almost reverent, around the raw spots.
But when the cloth drifted lower over the soft swell of Mordred’s breasts, Maeve’s touch noticeably slowed.
Mordred cracked one eye open.
“Maeve.”
“I am ensuring the soap reaches every place that requires it, my Lord,” the druid murmured, her voice dropping into a low, silk-smooth register.
Her thumb brushed deliberately across a peaked nipple beneath the suds.
“Carefulness is a virtue among my people.”
Mordred’s breath hitched despite herself.
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I am your handmaiden.” Maeve’s green eyes lifted, dark with open hunger.
“It is both my duty and my pleasure.” Visit g.com for the full chapter.
The cloth continued its path—down the plane of Mordred’s stomach, over the sharp cut of her hips, then lower still.
Maeve’s free hand rested lightly on Mordred’s knee, guiding it outward.
The cloth slipped between her thighs with deliberate care, stroking once, twice, slow enough to make Mordred’s toes curl against the copper bottom.
This time, Mordred did not stop her.
She let her legs fall open a fraction wider, her breath turning shallow as Maeve’s fingers replaced the cloth.
Soft, clever strokes circled and pressed until Mordred’s hips shifted restlessly in the water.
A low sound escaped her throat before she could swallow it.
Maeve’s smile near her ear was pure, wicked satisfaction.
“There we are,” she whispered.
“My Lord can be so obedient when she stops pretending she does not want this.”
Mordred’s fingers tightened on the copper rim.
Heat coiled low in her belly, and for a handful of heartbeats, she let it happen—let Maeve’s mouth find the crook of her neck, let those skilled fingers work her open with patient, devastating precision.
Then the cold, hard logic hit her.
‘Wait a second,’ Mordred thought, her eyes widening in a sudden flash of panic.
‘If I let her finish this tonight, she’s going to claim full squatters’ rights over my personal life!
Rowena so much as hands me a ledger tomorrow and Maeve will slip nightshade into her morning tea!’
Mordred’s hand reached down, closing firmly around Maeve’s wet wrist to stop the motion.
“Enough,” she said, her spoken voice rough but steady.
Maeve went still.
Green eyes lifted, dark with frustration and a flicker of something sharper.
“Morgan’s mission comes first,” Mordred lied smoothly, forcing the words out before her body could betray her.
“I cannot afford distractions.
Not yet.
Not when there is still a crown to handle.”
It was complete nonsense, and they both knew it.
‘Mother’s grand mandate to destabilize Camelot ranks somewhere around number forty-two on my priority list,’ Mordred admitted to herself.
‘Right beneath “figure out how medieval plumbing works.”‘
Maeve studied her for a long, silent moment.
Then a slow, knowing smile curved her lips.
“As my Lord commands,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand with agonizing slowness.
She pressed a single, lingering kiss to the inside of Mordred’s wet wrist instead.
“I will stop.”
Maeve held Mordred’s gaze another moment before lowering her eyes with visible reluctance.
She gathered the damp cloth once more and resumed washing away the soap with quiet, practiced movements, though every now and then the faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as if she had already decided patience would eventually win the argument.
The rest of the bath passed in charged silence.
Maeve rinsed her, dried her with practiced care, and guided her toward the narrow bed—though every lingering touch carried the quiet promise that this retreat was temporary.
When the damp towels dropped, Maeve’s own silks immediately followed.
She slid beneath the heavy furs completely naked, drawing Mordred back against her chest.
One pale thigh hooked possessively over both of Mordred’s legs, one arm wrapping around her waist while soft breasts pressed flush against her back.
“Sleep, my Lord,” Maeve whispered against her skin.
“I will keep every shadow at bay.”
Mordred’s eyes drifted shut.
The heat of the bed was heavenly.
Maeve’s lips pressed a slow kiss into the nape of her neck, and then the dark took her.
A moment later, something cool, green, and distinctly living brushed the inside of her thigh.
Mordred’s eyes snapped open.
A thin green vine, no thicker than a pinky finger, had slithered out from beneath the feather pillow.
It moved with lazy curiosity, tracing a slow line up the skin of her inner thigh, curling once around her hip joint before drifting higher in blatant exploration. New chapters come out on NovelPing first.
“…Maeve.”
“Hmm?” The druid’s voice was the absolute picture of soft, innocent sleep against her neck.
“Your vine.”
“Oh.” Maeve sounded faintly surprised, as if she had only just noticed a rogue piece of garden sprouting in the bed.
“How strange.
It must have a mind of its own tonight.”
The vine gave a tiny, playful little squeeze against her hip, clearly preparing for a second ascent.
Mordred reached down, caught the tip between two fingers, and pinched it hard.
The vine squirmed, retreating back under the pillow with what felt suspiciously like a pout.
“I said enough,” Mordred muttered.
Maeve’s quiet laugh was warm, muffled, and entirely unrepentant.
“As my Lord commands,” she repeated softly, pressing another kiss to Mordred’s shoulder.
“Truly this time.”
Maeve settled back into the pillows with an exaggerated little sigh that carried all the weight of someone accepting a deeply unfair fate.
One hand continued absent-mindedly combing through Mordred’s hair until her own breathing gradually slowed, and the fierce edge she carried through the day softened into simple, quiet contentment.
The vine did not return.
Mordred closed her eyes again, her heart still thumping a little too fast, trying very hard not to think about the fact that her live-in druid possessed sentient grope-foliage.
Morning arrived in a wash of pale, watery gold through the narrow stone window.
Mordred woke first to the scent of woodsmoke, old stone, and crushed nightshade—and to the heavy, silken weight of red hair spilled across her chest.
Maeve was still tangled around her like an octopus.
One pale thigh remained hooked high over Mordred’s hip, and one hand rested casually over Mordred’s chest, her thumb idly stroking even in slumber.
The faint smirk curling the corner of her lips suggested she had been awake for twenty minutes just enjoying the territory.
Mordred stared up at the wooden ceiling beams.
‘Of course,’ she thought, a blend of deep fond exhaustion and utter resignation washing over her.
‘Of course the unhinged druid is completely naked, claiming eighty percent of the mattress, and using me as a body pillow.
At least the foliage stayed under the bed.’
Maeve’s eyes fluttered open, emerald and bright with wicked satisfaction.
She lingered there for a moment without speaking, simply studying Mordred’s face in the morning light with an expression that carried none of last night’s teasing.
The bruising along Mordred’s cheek had already begun to fade beneath the salve, and Maeve’s shoulders eased with visible relief before the familiar mischief returned to her smile.
“Good morning, my Lord,” she purred, her voice thick with sleep as her hand gave a slow, deliberate squeeze.
“Did you sleep well…
or did you dream of unfinished business?”
Mordred let out a soft sigh, letting her fingers slide into the messy tangle of red hair.
“You are going to be the absolute death of me.”
Maeve’s smile widened into something sharp and delighted.
She stretched like a sleek cat, pressing every bare inch of herself firmly against Mordred.
“Only if anyone else tries to touch what is mine,” she murmured against Mordred’s collarbone.
“Now…
shall we revisit last night’s sudden interruption, or will you hide behind Mother’s mission again?”
‘Oh, man,’ Mordred thought, her brain firing emergency alarms as she glanced at the sunlight streaming through the window slits.
‘Somewhere down there, Rowena is already reviewing grain ledgers, Gawain is still crying over his bruised face, and Arthur is eating rabbit food on principle.
As tempting as it is to spend the morning getting seduced by a mad druid, I actually have somewhere to be.’
“As much as I’d love to play hooky,” Mordred said aloud, gently unhooking Maeve’s leg from her waist and sitting up on the edge of the cot, “I have a date with a mountain of economic ledgers.”
Maeve rested her chin on one hand, watching Mordred fasten her belt with open suspicion.
“Lady Rowena strikes me as the sort of woman who carries three spare quills because she expects someone else to lose two,” she observed with a quiet sniff.
“You will return speaking fondly about grain inventories if you spend too much time in her company.”
Mordred laughed under her breath as she reached for the last buckle.
“That would be a remarkable fate.”
Maeve narrowed her eyes just enough to make it clear she was only half joking.
“Besides,” Mordred added, tossing her tunic over her head and flashing a dry, charming smirk over her shoulder, “if I’m going to take over this kingdom eventually, I should probably figure out where they keep the actual food.”