Please, prove it.
As if he can hear my imploring, Rip unwinds from the chair. His powerful body stands up straight, spikes slowly rising from his arms and back like claws extending from a predator’s paw.
Slowly, that predator in him brings his body closer to mine, one deliberate step at a time. His hands come down on either armrest at my sides, and I plaster my head against the back of the chair as he leans in and steals up all the air.
“I will,” he murmurs, and I let out a puff of a gasp.
Right in front of my eyes, Rip morphs, magic swirling around him like wisps of steam. I’m held immobilized by the waves of his power that gently pulse out. Onyx eyes turn mossy green, scales disappear along with the spikes, ears and bones soften, and tiny fissures reach up his neck to root beneath the scruff of his beard.
My heart pounds uncontrollably as I look at the face of King Ravinger, my hands going slick where they’re bunched in the blanket. Pale skin, forest-green eyes, so masculine and gorgeous that it almost hurts to look at him.
“I’m glad you’re choosing you,” he says quietly, and my lips part, like I want to swallow the rumble of his cadence.
“You are?”
I go completely still as he moves his hand and grips my chin, like he wants to make sure I’m paying attention.
I am.
“Yes, Goldfinch. Because I’m choosing you, too.”
Like a ribbon caught on a wind-bent branch, he lowers, and I lift.
My lips land on his, his tongue sweeps against mine, and then we’re suddenly kissing like we’re starved.
We kiss like two stars colliding, our heat flaring with the threat to burn, while the cold world around us fades in our light. We kiss like we need the taste of one another or we’ll never be able to emerge from the dark.
My entire body bends toward him, every ribbon unwinding, stretching, reaching for him like wings reach for a breeze.
His hand moves to encase my jaw, angling me right where he wants me, and just that—the dominance of him, the strength but utter care—it makes me feel like I could burn forever.
The fire beneath my skin has nothing to do with anger or vendettas. This is pure, hungry, aching want that thrums in the pulse of my veins, refusing to be ignored.
When I nibble on his tongue, he bites down on my bottom lip with an erotic twinge that sweeps a moan from my mouth. He drinks in the sound, calloused hands cradling my face firmly, like he doesn’t want me to slip from his grip.
My ribbons trail out like vines, slinking up his body, wrapping around his arms to pull him closer. A guttural groan thunders from his chest at that, and he deepens the kiss even more, until it’s not just my skin that’s hot, but a needy fire that’s ignited between my legs. He stokes that need even higher when one hand skims down to stroke my ribbons, making a delicious shiver trickle along my back.
Just a kiss. One kiss, and I’m wrecked, because I never want this to stop.
I never realized that a kiss could be like this.
My hands brace against his shoulders again, like I need the reminder that he’ll hold me up, fingers digging into the strong muscles beneath the leather. I resent my gloves. I want to feel him, skin to skin, but I can’t stop to pull them off.
Flakes fall from the sky, dusting us with their chill, but the cold has no hope of touching us. I’m hot all over, passion kindled with an aching temptation of more. I think I’d come right out of my seat if he weren’t bowing over me, his body the lure I’m trying to hook to.
But just when I’m ready to drag him down with me, his lips leave mine.
Our breaths are quickened, the blanket a forgotten pile pooling at my waist. I stare at him as my chest heaves in a rapid pitch, lips tingling with the echo of his hold.
His gaze caresses over my face, and mine does the same, my finger coming up to trace the lines of his rooting power, noting the faint shifting beneath my touch.
He pulls away, or...he tries to. We both look down at my mess of ribbons wrapped around him, like they’ve decided to make him their own personal present.
“Sorry…” I say, suddenly embarrassed, moving to quickly tug them off, though they come away begrudgingly.
Ravinger gives me a crooked smile and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with such gentleness that my throat constricts. “Hopefully that clears things up.”
He straightens up, and even though the sight of him still has my pulse racing, it’s not in fear. Not anymore. His timing of that transformation was deliberate. Because his form might change, his eyes, his stance, his name, but those lips, his hands, his words, his heat...they’re the same.
Rip and Ravinger are the same, and it took a kiss for that to really sink in.
As he turns away, he’s already changing again, bringing back the spikes, the scales, the unforgiving stride of a warrior, but it’s still him.
He stops at the balcony door and looks back at me, the last of his green eyes ebbing away. “Goodnight, Auren.”
It’s still him.
Which is why I murmur, “Goodnight...Slade.”
His eyes widen for an infinitesimal moment, belying his shock that I’ve called him by his first name. Then his lips curl up, my ribbons curling too, as if we’re sharing something private, intimate. Something poignant between us.
Maybe we are.
When he’s gone, I sit back in my chair, blanket forgotten, unnecessary after the heat we invoked. In the silent snowfall, I whisper his name again, just a few more times, a single-word plea to the cluster of hidden stars above.
Please, let him prove it.
Chapter 17
QUEEN MALINA
What used to be old, frostbitten stone is now weathered gold bricks that nip at my hands as I lean against the yawning mouth of the tower’s archway.
A rare peek of sun has hammered through split-apart clouds, the waning daylight brightening the bell behind me. The golden reflection beats from its surface, engulfing my back in a judgmental glare.
Highbell’s bell tower is so high up, I’m told over a hundred workers lost their lives during its construction, though that didn’t stop my ancestors from seeing it through to the end.
We Coliers don’t give in.
Which is why the sight far below me, in the heart of the city, grates against my nerves like a plow scouring the surface and churning up what lies beneath.
Riots.
Everywhere.
From the filthy shanties to the upscale boutiques, the city has risen against me.
Looting is rampant, and desecration of royal property is nonstop in the square. The constabulary is being attacked every time they try to step in and make arrests. I watch it all from the tower, the bell at my back, gleaming with disgust as its people revolt beneath.
I had them.
For a moment, I had them. I was on the throne, ruling as I always should have. I was winning nobles, reviving Highbell to its former glory, repositioning myself—a true Colier—as the rightful ruler.
Everything was falling into place.
Until it all started falling apart.
The mobs are nothing but speckles in the city proper, clumps moving together. They’re burning, pillaging, and just generally breaking laws, until the city’s constabulary can cut them off. The problem is, when one rampage is subdued, it seems two more crop up.
My fingers curve in like claws, fingernails scraping the frost that’s gathered on the gilded sill, the cold air soaking into my skin. Three days, this has been going on, and every minute that passes in which these people do not come to heel, is another tick mark against them. I tried to be the kind queen. Benevolent with offerings, reminding them that it was Midas who let them starve, let them despair and ebb into poverty.
Yet, they’ve turned on me.
The muscle in my jaw kinks, a dull ache shooting through my ground teeth.
When another fire blazes to life in the city, I turn away with disgu
st. All four of my Queen’s guards are silent as I turn for the spiral stairs, its golden steps gone black from too many trodden heels.
It’s a dizzying way down as my pale hand grips the railing, curving walls mocking me with the staircase’s endless corkscrew.
When I finally reach the bottom, I’m berated by a biting wind while I walk through the open-walled walkway to yet another set of stairs and then finally back into the castle.
Inside, the air is thick with the scent of paint.
The walls are thick with it, too.
Two dozen carpenters. That’s how many workers have been hired to paint over every gaudy surface or build around them to hide it.
And yet everywhere I look, there are blemishes. Where the walls are painted white, nicks have appeared. Where floors have been covered, the rugs have slipped. Where wood has been nailed over table tops and window frames, gaps loom, like slitted smirks meant to mock me.
Highbell has become a living, breathing castle that sneers at me through every gilded surface. If I don’t get it all covered, if I don’t erase every last inch that’s been polluted, I’m going to go mad.
This is all his fault.
He took my home from me, turned it into a mockery of itself. Turned me into a mockery of myself.
As I walk past the main hall, Tyndall’s message thrums in my head. He thinks he can make me perform by dangling a bastard child in front of my face? I’d rather kiss his feet, and that will be a cold day in hell.
I will never claim his bastard, and without me doing so, that child can never be an heir, can never have Highbell.
Neither of them can, because it’s mine.
I look into doorways as I pass. “Where are my advisors?” I ask no one in particular.
“I’m not sure, my queen.” The answer comes from my head guard, his answer hesitant.
“Well, send someone to find them,” I snap impatiently.
He jerks his head at one of the other guards, the man slipping away to go locate them.
A frown pulls at my lips as I glance around the empty hall again, hearing no noise, seeing no one at work. “Where are the carpenters? Shouldn’t I be hearing hammers and seeing ladders braced on the walls?”
He shifts on his feet, silver chest plate showing my mottled reflection. I can see my pale face scrunched up in irritation, white hair swept up at the top of my head.
“The carpenters have not come since the riots began, Your Majesty.”
My nostrils flare. Those lazy, insufferable fools. They’re probably in the city, getting drunk and using the riots as an excuse not to work. “Fine. Then their contracts are hereby terminated, without pay. I want people willing to work here by tomorrow morning.”
The guards share a look, but I don’t care. I won’t tolerate such a lack of respect. During my father’s reign, no one would dare skip out on a day’s work in the palace. It was considered an honor to do the bidding of the Coliers.
“Am I clear?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Turning my back on him, I decide to go up to my rooms. My temples are beginning to ache, and I could do with some food.
Yet before I can get to the stairs, a servant rushes forward. “Your Majesty, you have a guest in the drawing room.”
My lips nearly lift into a sneer. “Who?”
“Sir Loth Pruinn.”
An impatient sigh scratches up my throat. The charlatan. The silver-eyed merchant who fancies himself a fortune teller. Ever since his cart blocked my carriage that day in the city, he’s been dropping in unannounced.
I nearly threw him out the first time he did it, except he came with the one thing I couldn’t resist, and it had nothing to do with a trick map claiming to show the way to achieve my greatest desire.
He came with baubles to sell, sure, but what he was really peddling was information. Sir Pruinn quickly realized how to make himself worth my time, and he’s been feeding me information about the city and the people ever since.
It’s why I knew the unrest was spreading. Why I wasn’t surprised when the riots broke out days ago. Unfortunately, once a rebellion lights, it can catch as easily as a spark on dry grass.
“Fine,” I say, spinning on my heel.
I enter the drawing room, finding Pruinn lounging on the cushioned chair, an overflowing shoulder bag resting on his lap like a lumpy pet.
Entering the room, I greet him coolly. “Pruinn.”
The blond man stands regally, his bag clinking when he rolls into a bow. As always, his clothes are impeccable, an ice-blue tunic heavy with furred trappings, his jaw clean-shaven, the hair on his head only an inch above his scalp.
“Queen Malina, you look indefectible, as always.”
I give him an unimpressed look before flicking my hand behind me. “Leave us.”
The guards file out, door closing behind them as I take a seat across from Pruinn. The room is cold, the windows along the outer wall cracked open in hopes of airing out the paint fumes. It’s been days since the walls were covered, but it takes ages to dry with such cold leaching through.
“I’m not interested in your trinkets and clutter today, Pruinn, so that better not be why you’re here.”
He sits down, tucking that knapsack back onto his lap, arching a darker brow up high. “Are you sure? I’ve a very exotic perfume from a merchant you can only find in the sand dunes of Second Kingdom.”
I don’t even dignify that with a response.
Pruinn’s expression gleams with amusement. “Right then. Well, the city is rioting.”
“I can see that,” I snipe. “Do you have real information, or are you trying to wear my patience? Because I can assure you, I’m not to be trifled with today.”
Instead of looking chastised, he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Do you know someone by the name of Gifford?”
My blink is the only thing that gives away my surprise at hearing that name. “Yes, he’s Tyndall’s messenger. He came from Fifth to deliver me a letter,” I say sharply.
“Well, he’s not just a messenger.”
One of my hands folds over the armrest of the chair. “Explain.”
His gray eyes practically glint with an eagerness to divulge. I never knew traveling merchants could be such insufferable gossips, but I’ll reap the benefits regardless. “Apparently, when you gave your answer, King Midas ordered the man to act accordingly. He sent off the hawk and stayed behind.”
Unease slithers up my back. “For what purpose?”
“He’s been meandering throughout the city. Pub to pub, inn to inn, storefront to storefront,” Pruinn leans forward. “Everywhere he goes, he’s been rousing the unrest. Ruffling up the grumblers. Making it spread. He’s the drip that has caused the ripple of riots.”
My fingers dig into the painted wood armrest, the claggy white color stuffing full beneath my nails. “Are you telling me that Midas ordered this messenger to escalate the unrest?”
Pruinn gives a resolute nod. “Yes.”
A hiss pours from between tight teeth, and I spring to my feet, pacing toward the window to peer outside. I can see nothing but the side of the mountain and an edge of surrounding castle walls, but I glare out of it anyway. I stare as if I can look straight into the city, right to that scoundrel Gifford as he spins his messages, leading the people like frenzied sheep with a sudden taste for blood.
“I want him killed.”
“No doubt,” he replies, completely unruffled by my declaration. “Unfortunately, he’s already gone. Flown away on his timberwing yesterday.”
The brisk wind feeds in through the crack of the open window and bites into my stomach, but it has nothing on my gnawing fury.
Tyndall’s fault.
All of it.
After a moment of icy anger crystallizing in my chest, I turn around. “I gather you’re capable of seeing yourself out, Sir Pruinn,” I say coolly before I start to walk away.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” he replies easily, unfolding from the chair to dip into another bow. “Have you given more thought to the map?”
I stop at the door, shooting him a look over my shoulder. “There is nothing to gain in Seventh Kingdom, Sir Pruinn, least of all my greatest desire,” I snip. “Good day.” My dismissal has me yanking open the door, and if he says anything in reply, I don’t hear it. Not over the raucous lividity that’s playing in my head.
My guards are quick to shadow me when I pass the hall, determined steps taking me upstairs while my headache twinges with a newfound furor.
Just as I reach my doors, the fourth guard rushes up, his breath coming in quick pants.
“Well?” I prompt. “Did you find my advisors?”
“No, Your Majesty, but when I went to ask the patrol outside, I was informed that the rioters have taken to the road, and the constabulary was unable to keep them blocked off. They’re heading for the walls.”
My very veins seethe. “What do they want?”
He shifts nervously on his feet. “Well...it appears they’re coming with makeshift weapons. I think they mean to try and storm the castle.”
“I want them stopped,” I grit out, pale eyes pinning each and every man standing at attention. “Do you hear me?”
My head guard nods immediately. “At once, my queen. We will set up the blockades. No one will get—”
“No.” I shake my head. “We need to make an example of them. Remind the people that an attack like this is not tolerated.” I take a step closer, uncaring that I’m a foot shorter than him, because I wear the crown. “I want them all slaughtered. Anyone comes within two hundred feet of the walls, I want them cut down like the ungrateful animals they are.”
I turn and go into my room, slamming the door behind me, leaving behind four grim-faced guards.
These people want to rise up and threaten their queen? Want to rampage their city and defy my laws? Then I’ll have every last rebel killed, and ring the bell in the tower as the frost covers their thankless corpses.
Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3) Page 18