Bread is pushed past my lips next. Cheese. Grapes. I chew mindlessly, staying silent, my eyes watchful, my ribbons tight.
With an outstretched index finger, he does a double tap against his goblet, his power flaring as he duplicates the cup and hands one to me. With a snap of his finger, a servant hurries over, filing them both with wine.
“A toast to our night,” he says before tipping it against his lips and gulping down the contents.
I take a bitter sip.
When Fulke is bored of feeding me, he takes both goblets and places them on the table, shooing away any more trays of food. I’m glad that’s over at least. The food sits in my stomach, as heavy as stones, my tongue belligerent for the taste of his fingers still lingering on it.
Of course, I don’t get let off that easy though, because Fulke lifts a finger to point to his plump cheek. “Kiss me.”
My eyes narrow, skin tightening, fingers curling in the skirts of my dress. When I don’t move, Fulke’s eyes flash. His hand comes up to pinch my ear, pulling me forward until my mouth lands against his scratchy cheek. Scratchy, not smooth like Midas. A rounded jaw and pudgy cheek, smelling of wine but reeking of arousal.
My lips don’t pucker, because I refuse to kiss him. My mouth presses against his skin as he holds me there, my ear squeezed between his finger and thumb.
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he laughs.
The moment he releases my ear, I lurch away, nearly tipping myself over the side of the throne, but Fulke grabs hold of my arms to catch me, holding me steady as his laugh deepens. “No need to fall down to your knees for me yet.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment, with anger. I want to get away. I want to be back upstairs, safe in my cage with only the Gale Widow’s cries for company.
Fulke doesn’t release me right away, and his hands that are still gripping my arms squeeze tighter, enough for me to wonder if I’ll be bruised later in dots of bronze. “I don’t think you’re close enough yet.”
He pulls me onto his lap without warning. A feat, considering my body is so rigid. It’s a wonder he’s able to get me to move at all. I land awkwardly, stiffly, the back of my legs hitting his thighs and my spine snapping upright so that I don’t lean against his chest. I try to grab the armrests to pull myself up, but Fulke snatches one of my wrists and places my palm over his crotch.
“Here, golden pet.”
My eyes flare wide. My stomach churns. I feel his flaccid length begin to grow and harden. And as much as I want to snatch my hand away, I can’t, because he’s holding my wrist there with surprising strength.
I live in a cage, but I’ve never felt so trapped.
“Your Majesty.”
Fulke’s eyes travel past me to where Rissa has come up in front of him. “Shall I dance for you?” she asks with a sultry smile, her blonde hair in long waves against her front, somewhat hiding her naked breasts.
King Fulke eyes her greedily and tilts his head, giving her the go-ahead. She starts to dance, her black skirts swishing against the polished floor and arcing against her ankles, her hips moving to the pulse of the music, her eyes a lure of enticement matched by the curve of her lips.
Fulke finally releases my wrist to lean back, and I’m able to snatch my hand away as he gives his attention to Rissa’s performance. “Watch her,” he tells me, his mouth entirely too close to my ear for my liking. “This is a saddle who knows what she’s doing. You’d do well to learn from her on how to please a man.”
How to please a man. As if that should be a woman’s—saddle or otherwise—sole purpose for living. The edge of my lip curls with the hint of a sneer.
Rissa’s smile widens at his commendation, her eyes casting over me as if to gauge whether or not I’m jealous, but of course I’m not. I’m relieved. Whether she intended to or not, she gave me a much-needed reprieve from his attention. Like I tried to give her in the library.
No one else can probably see the slight swelling of her nose or the layer of makeup beneath her eye that’s more than likely covering a bruise, but I do, and the sight makes me inwardly cringe. I really didn’t mean to hurt her.
“Mmm, she is a rather good dancer, wouldn’t you say, pet?”
I nod obediently. He clearly has a thing for making her dance for him. Rissa, ever the professional, continues to sway seductively.
She’s beautiful. High apple cheekbones; large, round eyes; blonde hair nearly down to her waist; curves; and full pink lips. It’s no wonder why Fulke likes her so much. And it’s not just her beauty, either—all of Midas’s saddles are beautiful—but it’s her confidence, the way she can read a man and know how to seduce him. She can transform, from her walk to her words, into becoming what someone wants.
Fulke rests a hand on my hips, thick fingers digging above the bone, pressing into flesh with a clear indication of possession. Until he gets bored with this as well, and instead moves me to sit on the floor in front of his legs. I think he likes the visualization of Midas’s most prized favored sitting at his feet.
My legs are tucked beneath me, the only position I can be in to keep myself covered. Some of the nobles attending the party grow bolder, no doubt bolstered by the wine. They come closer to the dais, murmuring and staring at me, and I stare right back. I don’t lower my head. I don’t turn my gaze away.
Let them talk.
Let them look.
Fulke gets caught up in a discussion with Midas and a few other men as they discuss new trade routes to be established from Fourth Kingdom. About new investment opportunities with the Blackroot Mines. As if standing in a solid gold ballroom isn’t enough.
The longer I’m made to sit on the floor, the more my knees and calves begin to ache. I try to shift to relieve some of the pressure, allowing some of the blood to rush back into my sore, scrunched limbs.
I tense when Fulke’s hand comes down on my head. A master petting his dog. “Speaking of new commodities,” Fulke begins, his fingers stroking through my hair, eyes gleaming. “Just a dozen strands of her hair must be worth a month’s wages for a peasant.”
“Hmm,” Midas says noncommittally, even as his eyes watch the way Fulke touches me. There’s possessiveness in his gaze, but he doesn’t step in. He doesn’t stop this.
I can feel a sharp, wet crackle burn in my eyes like a spitting wick, some invisible flame flickering in the center of my irises as tears threaten to pool like liquid fire.
And there, in the corner of a ten-year-long foundation of reliance and trust, a break appears. Like a shallow, jagged chip knocked into glass, a tiny fissure like spider’s silk spreads up an inch.
Rissa stops dancing long enough to perch beside Fulke, her deft fingers kneading into his shoulders, her legs draped over the arm of the throne in a graceful stretch.
While he talks, she expertly continues her sensual touches, from shoulders to chest, down to his abdomen and the waist of his pants. She brushes against his hardening length with a teasing smirk, catching the eyes of other men across the room who watch with hunger. A show for more than just the benefit of the king beneath her.
And I realize right then, that this woman, this saddle, holds power. Not the magic of kings and queens, but a different sort of power—one of control. She holds these men in the palm of her attentive hands, directing their desires, driving their emotions, feeding their fantasies.
In all my time as the royal saddle, I’ve never done anything close to that, never learned how. I haven’t needed to, since I’ve never been shared. Next to her, I probably look like the worst saddle ever, sitting here straight-backed, my hands tucked into my lap, cringing every time Fulke’s leg touches my shoulder or his hand comes down to pet me again.
“You’re really good at that,” I murmur, low enough that no one else can hear.
“I’m a saddle,” Rissa replies, as if that answers everything. I guess it does.
“I think we’ll retire now, pet,” Fulke says, snagging my attention to his face, his eyes cast dow
n into the line of my cleavage. “Up. I want to be buried in your golden cunt this hour, since Midas insists on taking you back before dawn.”
I’m wrenched up by the arms, the blood in my cramped legs rushing back through my limbs as I stand. “You go on, girl,” he orders Rissa. “I have no need of you tonight.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she says with a pretty dip of her head before she turns and gracefully glides away, toward the group of men who are still watching her.
Fulke turns to Midas, one hand still on my arm. “I bid you goodnight,” he says with a smirk. “I’m eager to have her to myself.”
King Midas tips his head at Fulke, though his brown eyes flick to me. “Enjoy.”
That’s all he says. Like I’m a wine or pastry, set out for King Fulke to enjoy. I turn my head away from him, too hurt to look at him anymore. That spider crack spreads another inch higher.
A few of his guards close in around us as Fulke leads us down the stairs of the dais, his escorts the only separation between me and the chortling crowd as they begin to hoot and holler out lewd things to us.
“Ride the golden saddle good, sire!”
“Fuck the gold right outta her!”
My teeth snap together at the continued vulgarity. My ribbons itch to lash out at them, to sharpen their edges and slice across their sneering mouths. When King Fulke decides to egg on the audience by releasing my arm to slap my ass, the ends curl around my ribs like clenched fists.
I have to be strong.
I have to.
Except...just his touch on my backside is enough to make me cringe. How am I supposed to allow him to touch any other part of me? How am I supposed to go through with this?
Souvenir.
Sit pretty.
Behave.
Trust him.
And suddenly, right there in the middle of the ballroom amidst the mocking revelers, I decide that I won’t.
Chapter Twelve
I don’t want this man to touch me. I don’t care if he is a king. I don’t care if my king traded me to Fulke for the night, or if he won a battle because of it. I don’t want this, and I’m not going to just lie down and take it. I’m not going to behave. This...Midas can’t ask this of me. Can’t demand it.
I come to a stop right before we reach the gleaming doors.
King Fulke and his guards don’t even notice for a moment. They’re too caught up in the celebration. In the excitement.
When they start to walk toward the doorway, the five men seem to realize I’m not moving with them anymore, and they all look behind them where I’m standing a few paces back. The king is the last to turn but the first to speak. His bushy gray brows pull together. “Come, pet.”
My neck feels as stiff as stone, but I manage to shake my head. “No.”
I swear, my voice echoes. Ridiculous, since there are two hundred people here and the musicians are still playing—albeit drunkenly. But my single, soft spoken word? It might as well have been the rumble of an avalanche, because it makes everyone go quiet and strain to listen, to decipher the disturbance that ripples through the air.
“What? What did you say?” King Fulke asks, all good humor gone from his face. Now, his dark eyes shine with disbelief and outrage.
I back up a step and shake my head, my resolve unwavering even as my fear grows. “I’m the king’s favored,” I say, lifting my chin and speaking with a strong tone that doesn’t match with the fact that my hands are shaking. “Despite what I look like, I’m not a coin to be spent.”
I thought there was silence before, but now it’s crushing. Even the wind outside has gone quiet. I look around, though I’m not sure why. For an ally? I have none.
I don’t know the hit is coming until my head snaps to the right and an explosion of red-starry pain crashes over my eyes.
The only way I’m able to stay upright from the hit across my cheek is because his hands are fisted at the back of my dress, his hold crushing some of my ribbons between his knuckles.
Fulke wrenches me to face Midas, who’s already striding this way, the crowd parting for him like he’s a rushing rapid, a river to cut through the land.
“Is this how your saddles speak to royalty?” Fulke asks, spit flying from his furious mouth and hitting the side of my throbbing face as he shakes me. “I should have her head!”
“Well, I gave you her cunt, not her head,” Midas replies coolly as he walks past the gawking crowd.
My own weak river flows down my cheeks, pitiful drips that move nothing at all, landing uselessly at the floor near my feet.
I know I should keep my mouth shut. I know this. But I can’t help it, and I’m already in trouble as it is, so why not? What the hell have I got to lose?
“Aren’t I worth more than this?” I ask quietly. Not to Fulke, but to Midas. Not about the gild of my skin, but the love of my heart. Isn’t that worth more?
“Worth?” King Midas seethes as he stops in front of me. His tone is quiet, but the closest onlookers can still hear, and everyone is pressing closer, straining to hear what he says. “You are worth more than all the gold in this castle. But I still own you, and I will spend you any way I see fit.”
I’ve never heard a heart shatter, but it sounds like a crack spreading up glass.
But you promised to keep me safe. You promised I’d always have your heart.
I want to say it, but I’m silent. My wet eyes scream with the truth of those soundless words, but my king doesn’t hear me.
Midas looks over at his ally. “Apologies, King Fulke. You’ll have to excuse her innocence. I’ve always spoiled her. She will not misbehave again.”
I can’t tell if Fulke is assuaged, because I don’t look at him. Midas’s eyes flick behind me to the guards. “Escort Auren to King Fulke’s rooms.”
“No!”
Spurred into action, I try to wrench away, but I’m dragged forward by two of Fulke’s guards, like it’s not even a strain. Smashed between the guards’ purple-dipped armor, I’m mindless with anger, with shock. I hurl curses at them left and right, but their holds don’t loosen.
King Fulke stalks in front of us as we walk through the doorway. “Quiet!” he snaps. “Or I will belt you this night until your golden skin is welted!”
My mouth shuts, though I’m not convinced that will save me. I defied him publicly, and in my experience, defying a king never goes unpunished.
Outside of the ballroom, I’m hauled across the entry hall, my escorts turning me in the direction of the grand staircase at the other end of the room. But before we reach it, the main doors suddenly fly open, and a soldier wearing Fulke’s armor comes sprinting in. Midas’s guards standing watch at the door shout for him to stop, but he ignores them when he spots Fulke and starts racing toward his king.
His heavy purple cloak is covered in snow and ice, his boots muddy with frozen slosh. He slips on the floor as he runs, yet he doesn’t lose his feet. “My king!”
Fulke stops with a frown. “What is the meaning of this?”
Stopping in front of us, the bedraggled soldier pants so hard he has to kneel over a bit to catch his breath before he can speak. His chest plate is crusted with frost, his face red and chapped from the wind.
“Where are you reporting from, soldier?” one of Fulke’s guards asks, stepping forward in front of the king in a defensive stance.
“Fourth Kingdom’s border, sir,” the soldier answers.
The guard frowns. “Where’s Gromes?”
He shakes his head. “The messenger was killed in action. The general attempted to send two others, but I was the only one who managed to get on the back of one of the timberwings and escape before we were shot from the sky. I flew all day and night.”
Raucous laughter from the ballroom bleeds out as a few of the party-goers come stumbling into the hall, hands groping, unaware of their surroundings.
Midas comes striding toward us a second later with six of his own guards—of course it’s six—including Digby. He takes
one look at Fulke’s messenger, and a grim look crosses his face.
“Come. Speak in private this way, away from the ears and eyes of revelers,” Midas says, nodding his head in the direction of the letter room off to the left. I’m hoping to slip away, but the guards don’t let me go. Instead, I’m hauled down a short hallway, away from the staircase, and our group files into the room.
The space holds a few scattered tables and chairs, while parchment, candles, ink bottles, wax, and quills are piled up for anyone to use to write their letters and send them off.
The door is closed behind us, shutting me in with two kings and ten guards between the two of them.
The messenger doesn’t look any more composed than he was when he first burst in through the doors. If anything, he’s breathing even harder now, his eyes shifting nervously around the room as he positions himself behind one of the golden tables.
“Well?” King Fulke demands. “I want to know why my messenger is dead and why you’ve been sent here from the border.”
The messenger’s hands shake slightly. Whether it’s from nervousness or exhaustion, I don’t know. “My king, if I could speak to you in private…”
But Fulke’s dark eyes narrow on his request. “Are you a traitor, soldier? Did you defect?”
The messenger’s eyes go wide. “What? No, sire!”
“Then explain yourself!” Fulke demands, crashing his fist onto the table, making both me and the messenger flinch.
Somber resolve settles in the man’s face, though he grips the hilt of his sword. “As soon as your army breached Fourth’s border, King Ravinger’s men attacked. Your entire fleet was decimated, sire.”
King Fulke’s brows pull together. “You are mistaken. Our troops broke through Fourth’s line earlier this morning. We took Cliffhelm. Our joined armies with Sixth’s were victorious. Fourth was caught completely off guard. Our negotiations are already in place.”
The messenger darts a look around the room, eyes landing on a stoic, expressionless Midas before returning to Fulke. “No, Your Majesty.”
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