“I did.”
I really, really did.
He turns back to his food, and I pull my glove back on, my gold-slicked palm sticking to the inside of the fabric. Taking care to stay composed, I keep my expression shuttered while my insides riot.
Stupid. That was a stupid, foolish risk I shouldn’t have taken. My pride is not worth Digby’s life.
But damn, it felt good to make him squirm.
A few minutes later, the sun dips away, and the dying day gives in. With the descent of night, I feel my power empty out of me. The claggy gold remnants on my hand soak back into my skin, and I let out a ragged, tired breath. Too much power too fast has left me lightheaded, and I’m clearly still recovering from my drain.
Everyone is talking around me, Queen Kaila fawning over the golden table while the others continue to eat and make small talk. Somehow, I manage to eat my tacky, cold porridge and wash it away from the roof of my mouth with a gulp of water.
AlI I want to do is run back to my room and escape to the balcony, to breathe in the crisp air, far away from prying eyes and courtly conversation. Midas’s presence beside me is the bow of a ship, looming ever closer, no matter how fast I try to swim.
When I bite into some syrupy fruits, I have the sudden urge to cry. But that wouldn’t do. It’s odd enough that I’m sitting here like a spectacle at a royal dinner. If I start weeping into my dinner bowl, I’ll be the talk of the court. But I hate this. Hate him. Gritting my teeth, I tell myself to pull it together, to not let him get to me.
Why is it that a man can make you feel like nothing, when you have given him everything?
Suddenly, like a whisper in my ear, I feel the faintest breeze of magic brush against my cheek. So subtle, like dipping a single fingertip into still water. Rather than the nauseating power he usually gives off, this is the balm of a cool caress that I’ve grown accustomed to when he’s in his spiked form.
At the stroke of his essence, I’m able to let out a normal breath. My throat bobs, swallowing down the regret and worry, and I grasp that composure I need. Just like that, Slade has calmed me, grounded me on stable earth.
Since I can’t look at him, I let my eyes lift to Fake Rip again instead, his slitted helmet pointing straight ahead, hands clasped in front of him. Who would I find if I pulled off that dark metal that hides his face? What other secrets does King Slade Ravinger have?
“Did you hear me?”
My head snaps to the left at Midas’s voice. “What?”
Brown eyes darken as his gaze skips from me to the commander I was just caught staring at. My stomach drops, and I know I’ve made another grave mistake tonight. All of the calming reassurance I received from Slade is instantly gone, crushed beneath the threat of Midas’s stare.
Midas jerks his chin up, eyes dragging to the harp by the windows. “Go play some music.”
Not a request.
Not even really appropriate, considering the setting and that I haven’t finished eating. He caught me looking at Rip, and he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Your Majesty, don’t feel like you have to add entertainment on our account,” Manu cuts in across the table. “Besides, that harp looks awfully complicated, doesn’t it, Keon?”
The man looks up from the leg meat in front of his mouth. When he doesn’t reply right away, Manu elbows him. “Oh, right. Yes, awfully complicated.”
“My Auren is self-taught,” Midas boasts with another fake smile. “Well?” he prompts.
“Now?” I ask thickly, stalling.
Displeasure bleeds through his features. “Yes, now.”
I’m on thin ice, I know that. I honestly don’t know what’s come over me tonight. Or maybe I do.
It’s nothing.
I’ve mastered it.
He’s already insulted me, embarrassed me, sat me here to be his trophy, and bolstered his own image by pretending that he gilt the table. The last thing I want is to go over there and perform like a puppet.
Still, I’m surprised when I hear myself saying, “No, thank you.”
Someone’s fork screeches against their plate like a startled musician squeaking their violin string. The chattering along the table dims. From my peripheral, I think I see Slade smirk.
I learned long ago to read Midas’s subtleties, and right now, he’s so sharp with anger that I’m in danger of being pierced straight through. His voice drops low, like the threat of rain on a drowned-out sea. “No?”
I attempt to smooth his ruffled feathers by giving him a placating smile. “It’s been so long since I’ve played in front of anyone. I’m out of practice…”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. No, there’s a sort of furious yet gleeful anomaly there that sets me on edge. “Oh, Precious, you play so beautifully. You’ll get the hang of it again and be just as you were before.”
His double meaning is clear.
“I had no idea your gold-touched was so talented,” Queen Kaila says, drawing his attention.
“Yes, she has learned some very good skills to entertain me with over the years,” he says, looking back at me. “Isn’t that right, Precious?”
The innuendo has me burning from my cheeks to my ears.
He’s doing this on purpose. Humiliating me. Putting me in my place. Reminding me and everyone else here that I’m his possession.
“She’s always happy to entertain others as well,” Midas goes on, and for that split second he looks away from me, I allow my gaze to dart to Slade.
He’s sitting back in his chair, one elbow leaning on his armrest, and a goblet balanced in his other hand. He looks relaxed. Bored, even.
Except for the whites of his knuckles where he’s gripping his goblet so fiercely I worry he might shatter it.
Maybe shatter me in the process.
There’s a cough from the back of the room, and my eyes shoot to Fake Rip, whose hands drop back down in front of him.
This time when Midas’s hand comes up, his fingers pinch right on the sensitive underside of my arm. Even through the sleeve, it hurts. I stiffen and suck in a breath, tears springing up from the sharp notch of pain as he digs in.
With the way his hand is wrapped around my bicep, I’m sure to the rest of the table that it simply looks as if he’s bestowing me with an affectionate touch instead of this move of punishing dominance.
Some of them keep up polite conversation, but they’re really paying attention to us. After all, it’s not every day one gets to observe the Golden King with his elusive gold-touched favored.
As if that scrutiny weren’t bad enough, I can feel Slade’s eyes burning into the side of my face. I don’t know how I know he’s watching, or how I can feel his attention stitched to the place Midas is touching me, but I do.
“Don’t be shy now, Precious.”
One of my ribbons lifts, a beveled end perking up like a snake scenting the air. Every second that passes makes the pinched spot even more painful, feeling like a pin bolted straight through my skin.
Midas smiles at the look in my eye before blessedly releasing me. Though he finally lets go, it doesn’t remove the hurt, and isn’t that fitting? Every part he’s touched has bloomed with a blatant spot I’m left to ache with. Every touch radiates out with a mark from the spot he savaged.
“My leg and arm are a little sore,” I reply quietly, dropping a pointed look to my thigh that’s no doubt already forming a bruise as well.
“I forget how delicate you are,” Midas says, the pleasantness in his voice nothing but a farce to the edge in his eye. “Since your leg is so sore, perhaps the commander can carry you to the harp. He seems to have some practice at that.”
Shit. My heart stammers, a clumsy, knocking pulse to rap against my ribs. How much does he know?
Damn the guards for reporting my every move. Now that I think about it, the only reason I didn’t get Midas storming into my bedroom was probably because Queen Kaila arrived last night.
He was preoccupied.
He isn’t preoccupied anymore.
Now, I’m going to pay for letting someone else touch me. No matter that it was his own damn fault I couldn’t walk up the stairs in the first place.
He lets his kingly voice boast out, “Commander, come help Auren to the harp.”
I have to hand it to him. The asshole really has some nerve, ordering Rip around like that, considering the commander’s reputation and the fact that Midas isn’t even his king.
All of Midas’s attention is pinned to Fake Rip, but the man is still standing stoic against the wall, powerful thighs shoulder-length apart. He cocks his head, not in Midas’s direction, but in Slade’s, and my embarrassment comes to a head.
“That’s not necessary,” I quickly state.
“Oh, but it is. I insist.” Midas’s tone is sharp enough to cut.
My teeth grit and grind. Desperate now, I look around the table, but everyone’s pointedly pretending not to be paying attention to this exchange. Even Manu and Keon are in deep discussion with their queen.
“I don’t need to inconvenience the commander.” I scoot my chair back too fast, the legs wailing out a shrill screech against the stone.
Before I can stand fully, Midas’s hand is on my wrist, halting me. “If it wasn’t an inconvenience last night, then it certainly shouldn’t be now.” The cold challenge is a blatant flex of control shoveled out from his words before he levels a look at Slade. “You don’t mind, do you, Ravinger? Your commander took such good care of my Auren last night, so I know he can do so again.”
My Auren.
Half of me is surprised at how blatant his play of control and possession is tonight. Yet it makes sense to me too, since I know he learned about last night. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s anyone touching me.
Slade regards him, head cocked, expression apathetic. Even when his eyes drop to skim over the spot where Midas is holding me, there’s nothing. Not a flicker of any kind of emotion.
I think that’s what bothers me most of all.
At least until Slade says, “By all means, Midas. Whatever you need.”
Something in me deflates at that, my ribbon settling down to lick invisible wounds. Was I imagining the bite of anger I saw earlier with his grip on his goblet?
Slade’s every action is always unexpected. But it isn’t until I feel this pebble of disappointment dig in that I realize I thought he was going to intervene on my behalf.
But he doesn’t.
Fake Rip is already stalking toward me, the black sheen of the spikes looking scarier on him than they do on Slade. All too soon, he’s right in front of me, taking my arm into the crook of his stiff elbow.
I turn and start the humiliating walk over to the harp, wishing I’d never opened my big mouth. I should’ve known that Midas would find it necessary to immediately put me in my place.
We’ve only taken a few steps when Midas calls out, “My favored can’t possibly walk on her own, Commander.”
Heels stuck to the stone, this stranger and I stay frozen for a moment. Then, nearly too quietly to hear, a sigh sounds within the hollow spaces of his helmet.
My shoulders tighten. “Don’t you da—”
Before I’ve finished my sentence, I’m picked up in Fake Rip’s arms.
Not bridal style. Not even flung over his shoulder like a brute.
No, he carries me like a sack of potatoes, hauling me up by my waist with one arm, balancing me against his side.
I’m too stunned to offer an objection as he stomps the rest of the way to the harp, every step jostling me like I’m an errant toddler on a mother’s hip.
I get dropped unceremoniously onto the stool in front of the instrument, and I hiss in protest, shooting a glare up at the man, while my ribbons practically turn to poke silken tongues out at him. I’m not positive, but I think I might see him wink at me through the slits in his helmet before he turns and strides back to his spot.
What the hell?
The dining room is achingly quiet for a second until Manu demands, “Why don’t you carry me around like that?”
“Because you weigh about a hundred pounds more than me,” Keon drawls.
“That’s a terrible excuse.”
Thankful that Manu and his husband have filled the awkward gap of quiet, I straighten my back and lift my chin before I let my fingers pluck against the strings.
I don’t play any particular song. There’s no need. Midas doesn’t actually want me to entertain anyone with a tune, that’s never what this has been about in all my years of playing. It’s a performance, but not one that has anything to do with music.
For the next hour, while the rest of them eat and drink and talk, my gilded fingers strum over the strings. It’s an indolent, vagabond melody with no focus that plunks through the flicks of my fingertips.
Not once does Midas say anything to me again. Not once does Slade, or any of his Wrath, glance my way. Manu eyes me every once in a while, but I don’t know him well enough to judge the expression on his face.
Behave tonight
Sit pretty
Play your silly music
Leave the men to speak
Those old words sing along in soundless lyrics. Same shit, different castle.
Chapter 20
AUREN
My fingertips feel raw.
It’s been months since I played the harp, and it shows. After hours of sitting at that stool, plucking discordant strings with bare hands while my gloves stayed in my lap, my fingers are now tender and offended, puffed up with indignation.
The thing is, I like music. I like that I can control the thrum of every note, steer every melody. Perhaps I like it in the way a bird likes to sing. But being ordered to play, like a pet performing for background noise, makes me resent the act altogether. I want to sit at the harp because I want to. Not because I’ve been mastered.
In a way, it’s good, what happened tonight. Midas’s asshole tendencies rearing its ugly head, the public embarrassment, even Slade’s reaction. It’s good, because it reminds me to stay on track. Reminds me why I need to find Digby and get the hell out of here and to not put my faith in males.
Prove it, I told him.
He didn’t.
Midas walks me back to my room as soon as dinner ends. His temper burns like a double-ended candle, flaring hot with anger on one side and arrogance at the other. I’d be trembling in my slippers right about now if I were still the same girl in Highbell, and that’s what he wants. The giant always expects the ones at his feet to scramble for his bidding, if only not to get trampled on.
As soon as we reach the hall, the guards in the corridor whip open my bedroom door so that we don’t even break stride as we enter. I go straight to the balcony doors and toss them open, not caring that the piled up snow blows into the room, scattering like salt over a sloppy dinner plate.
I need the fresh air. I need the openness these doors represent. Because after tonight, after that display of dominance, my spirit needs the reminder.
I’m not trapped.
I’m not weak.
I’m not his.
The door shuts with a snap, the sound dancing with the crackle of the fireplace as the flames gnaw and bite at the burning wood.
I turn around, hands clasped in front of me, and Midas grips me with his gaze like he wants to shake me from the inside out.
“You acted abominably this evening.”
I want to snort at the hypocrisy, but I keep my lips sealed like wax on a letter.
The right side of his face glows orange, making his tanned skin speckle with the flames. “Do you have any idea what Queen Kaila must think of you?”
As if I care. But he certainly does. Midas obsesses about appearances and how to use them to his advantage.
“I’ve allowed you a lot of freedoms, Auren. But I will not abide disrespect, and after our discussion, you sho
uld know better.”
My chin rises, right along with that feathery companion that seems to have nested in my anger. “Digby did nothing but be a loyal guard for years. You have no right to threaten him.”
He laughs.
It’s a cruel, cold laugh that contradicts the firelight he’s bathed in. Midas eats up the space between us until he’s blazing at my front while the reminder of an escape chills my back.
“Being a king gives me every right in the world. I own the rights, the rules, the laws. You’ve pleased me with your work this past week, but that stunt you pulled tonight won’t be tolerated.”
My winged anger sits up, a dark trill in the back of her throat that sounds like a promise.
“Explain to me what the hell you were thinking letting that disgusting man touch you last night?” His words lash, one after another. “If he was any other soldier, his severed head would already be draining in your bathtub for you to gild.”
Tepid bile crawls up the back of my throat, my stomach churning with the visual of that. Of Rip’s—Slade’s—head cut right through his neck, pale skin glossed over with the paint of red blood. It wouldn’t be the first time Midas has carried out something that gruesome and ordered me to gold-touch it as an example to others.
Midas leans down, and I blink the vision away, breath stuttering in my chest as his fury soaks up the oxygen in the room. “If you let anyone ever touch you again, you won’t like what happens. To you, to the other person, or to Digby.”
“I nearly collapsed on the stairs, and your guards wouldn’t help.”
“And they shouldn’t!” he bursts out. “No one is allowed to touch you except for me. That’s twice now this commander has disrespected me.”
A line digs between my brows. “Twice?”
“He lifted you off the horse when he brought you back,” he seethes. “I should have ordered an arrow to shoot him down right where he stood.”
And had the might of Fourth’s army attack him back? Not likely.
“Did you fuck him?”
The question lands like a crack renting the earth.
Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3) Page 21