Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3)

by Raven Kennedy

  “I-I can’t.”

  A flash of utter disappointment crystallizes in his eyes. And that gesture as sharp as glass cuts me to the bone. It’s a wound much worse than the one I sustained on my cheek.

  “Exactly.” He turns and moves away a few steps, and I feel the space between us like a chasm that I have no hope of crossing. “Which is why I refuse to ruin my chances over that worthless fucker,” he hurls out the insult between bitten teeth. “If I killed him—and make no mistake, Auren, I would gladly kill him for you, damn the consequences. But if I did, the truth is right there on your face. You’d resent me for it. Even if you don’t want to admit it. And isn’t that just a fucking cruel twist of it all?”

  Tears build up in my eyes with every pent-up word that peels off him, but I don’t let them drop this time. Not even as they burn and puddle on my lids.

  He tilts his head in my direction, particles of dust clinging to the air between us like it’s waiting for us to settle. But we don’t settle, that’s the problem. We never do. Every time I think we’re on even footing ready to stand still, one of us takes another step.

  “I’m...” My mouth closes. I’m what? Sorry? Am I apologizing that I can’t ask the male in front of me to kill the one I’ve put behind me?

  “Is that what you think I should do? Is that what you want?” I ask instead, the question genuine.

  He tips his head up and sends a bitter smile to the cobwebbed ceiling. “What I want…” His laughter is soaked in somber asperity, eyes casting for wisdom from a sky that can’t see us. After a pushed breath through his tense chest, he looks at me again. “There’s only one thing that I find I want anymore.”

  There’s a churning in my stomach, his declaration twisting me all up so much that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to disentangle myself. Based on the woven look in his grass-bladed eyes, he feels the same.

  “I’ll be returning to Fourth Kingdom the day after the ball,” he says suddenly, and something painful tears through my chest. “I’ve been away too long as it is, and I’m needed there.”

  You’re needed here too.

  He looks at me, and there’s a wait there, an opportunity for me to ask him to stay, and it terrifies me.

  Like a confession of pilfered spoils, I hear myself say, “I’m trying to leave him.”

  Slade’s attention sharpens, my eyes dropping from the piercing gaze that lands against my face. “I’m trying to just...leave.” My words tear off, like shorn parchment right in the middle of an apology letter. “To disappear.”

  That stillness in him has returned, the unmoving mountain standing solid against fits of wind.

  I don’t know why I told him, and yet, he feels like the only one I should tell.

  Because despite my determination to get away, Slade’s right. It would be so easy to end Midas, to turn him into the gold he covets so much. To bring an end to that tyranny. It would be even easier for Slade to rot him inside out.

  But...I can’t.

  And great Divine, doesn’t that just leave me conflicted. I hate myself, I’m proud of myself, I’m right, I’m wrong, this is best, this is worst.

  Around and around and around I go.

  “Judge me for it—for not being able to end him,” I say softly, almost like I want him to. And maybe I do. Maybe it would be a good punishment, fit for the girl who fell in love with her captor and let herself flounder. “I know how pathetic I must seem to you.”

  Whatever he sees on my face makes his eyes soften, the angry frustration smoothing from his heavy brow. He walks over to me again, not nearly as close this time, but at least he’s sealed the gap, making the air between us not so cold and jagged when I inhale.

  Slowly, Slade lifts a hand to sweep a knuckle across my bruise. I melt into the touch like the brim of wax on a candlestick, and all I can think is, what would it be like to just catch and burn in his heat?

  One simple skim is all I get though, and then his touch drops away, leaving the track to tingle. He stuffs both hands into his pockets, as if he needs to keep them there so he doesn’t reach for me again. I keep trying to convince myself that separation from him is what I need, and yet every time I get just that, it feels like someone is fisting my paper heart, crumpling it whole. A pang resonates through me as he stands there, suddenly seeming untouchable.

  It doesn’t matter that his shirt is torn on the sleeves from where his spikes ripped through. It doesn’t matter that he’s here in a begrimed library full of rotting books. It doesn’t even matter that I saw him lose a sliver of control. Somehow, he still manages to look kingly. Intimidating. Gorgeous.

  “You’re not pathetic,” he murmurs quietly, a somber sort of song. “You just haven’t found it yet.”

  My golden brows pull together as I search his expression for meaning. “Found what?”

  “We all have our edge, Auren. One day, you’re going to find where yours is.” The darkness of his essence brushes against my skin like a whisper’s caress. “You’re going to find out just how far you can be pushed until you’re tipped over. And when that happens, when you find your edge, just promise me one thing.”

  My voice comes out like a croak, a single tear dashing down. “What?”

  “Don’t fall.” Time stands still as he leans in and places a kiss on my temple, lips turning to whisper into my ear. “Fly.”

  I don’t even realize my eyes fluttered closed until I blink my damp lids open again. But by then, Slade’s already gone, swallowed up by the shadows without a sound.

  Chapter 26

  SLADE

  The library door doesn’t slam shut behind me. It would’ve been more satisfying if it had. Not for the scribes, who’d surely curse me in their heads, but it would’ve pleased me immensely given my current mood.

  Instead, all I get is the quiet snick of wood. Yet somehow, Osrik hears it and appears around the corner, his black leathers peeling him from the shadows as he waits for me.

  For a big bastard, he’s quiet when he wants to be. All my Wrath are. They’ve had to learn skills like that over the years. Some of those skills are as harmless as learning to move silently, while other skills are...not so harmless.

  Osrik takes one look at my expression and cocks a bushy brow. Stroking a hand down his brown beard, he studies me as I stalk down the hall toward him. He steps up to my side and matches my pace, and even though I’m not a short male by any means, Osrik’s height dwarfs mine, his bulky body swaying with every booted step.

  “So, nice visit with Auren then?” he asks wryly, a smirk playing on his mouth.

  I pin him with a glare. “Why don’t you take that piercing in your bottom lip and stick it through your top one too?”

  Osrik lets out a chuckle, tongue flicking over the tiny piercing of Fourth’s twisted tree branch sigil. It’s one of his only tells. He flicks at it when he’s thinking, or pissed, or amused. So actually, I guess it’s a pretty shit tell.

  “She’s done a number on you, huh?”

  My irritation twitches with the vein in my temple. Beneath my skin, I can feel my power writhing like infected veins, rooting around for a source to latch onto. My fury feels the same, but I know exactly who I want to take it out on.

  “He fucking hit her.”

  Osrik stops in his tracks. I turn to face him, and his brown eyes blink at me, his round face going ruddy beneath his scruff. “What the fuck did you say?”

  Only because we’re in a deserted hallway does he know he can talk to me like this. When we’re around others, we have to keep up the act of formality. But I don’t consider my Wrath my subjects or servants. They’re the only people in this whole damn world I trust. So when we’re not forced to play court, we can speak freely.

  I’m glad for the anger I see on his face. Misery may love company, but anger thrives on it.

  “Midas struck her. After the welcome dinner. She has a fucking bruise on her cheek.”

  Osrik curses unde
r his breath, but just saying it aloud makes me fist my hands at my sides. I hadn’t noticed the mark at first—I’d thought the dim lighting and the shadows were the reason behind the slight darkening along her cheek. Just the thought that the slimy shithead put his hands on her makes my blood boil.

  “What do you wanna do?” Osrik asks evenly. “Kill the fucker?”

  I have to smirk at the way he so effortlessly proposes we kill a king.

  The thing is, if I asked them to, any of my Wrath would do it in a heartbeat. No hesitation, no questions asked. They’d slit Midas’s throat and be happy for the bloodstain on their blade.

  Yet like I told Auren, there’s a reason why I’ve held back. Not just because of the political problems that would arise—and they would arise. Especially if it became known that I killed him or had any hand in it. I don’t even want to think about the repercussions my kingdom would face, and my people don’t deserve that.

  The other kingdoms would form an alliance to get rid of me, no doubt. Then my people would be forced to live through more war, and if the others succeeded, my kingdom would have to live beneath a new king or queen.

  Fuck that.

  However, aside from those reasons, I’d still kill him if Auren asked me to. But she won’t. Just like she didn’t ask me not to leave Ranhold.

  I let out a frustrated sigh. “As much as I want to...no.”

  Auren’s eyes are opened now, she sees the bars for what they are, but killing the captor she loved is another matter entirely. So for now, I can do nothing, and that alone makes me rage, makes my irascible power grow moody and demanding. Or perhaps it’s the thought of her leaving, disappearing. As if she needs to run away from not just Midas, but me as well.

  At my reply, Osrik lifts his lip in a disappointed sneer. “What if I just maim him a bit?”

  A chuckle comes out of me, helping to dispose of the black cloud that’s looming over my thoughts. The two of us start walking the halls again while I think. Ranhold is a maze of corridors and staircases, and it can be easy to get lost within its stone and glass walls, though I’ve made a point to familiarize myself with most of it.

  “I’ll let you know on the maiming,” I reply. “I wouldn’t mind castrating him.”

  Osrik gives me a grunt in return.

  “No moves on the prince?” I ask, switching subjects.

  He shakes his head, the fasten around his long hair pulled at his nape. “No. Lu’s just left her watch for the night. If Midas is planning on killing the little twat, he’s not doing anything yet.”

  I hum thoughtfully. “Where are the others?”

  “Already back at camp. We received the hawks for updates back at Fourth.”

  “All is well?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  I roll my eyes in amusement. “Always so loquacious, Os.”

  “Low what?”

  My lips twitch. “Nothing.”

  By the time we make it down to the ground floor, I’m feeling more in control, though my moody power is still brimming and volatile. I thought I was going to have to expel some magic right there in the library. I let my anger surge so much that my forms shifted back and forth, which hasn’t happened in years. It took everything to hold it back, but even then, I thought I was going to lose it. Until Auren touched me.

  One touch, and she brought my magic to heel. I could practically taste her sunlit aura as it swept against mine. It’s a good thing no one else can see it but me, because people would’ve figured her out a long time ago. But distance and my own damn anger has my power stretching and slinking, like it wants to crawl out from beneath my skin and rot this whole damn castle.

  I let out a controlled breath to get a handle on it, just as Osrik says, “You need to get rid of some of that.”

  He and the others know better than anybody what can happen when I don’t use my power and I let it build up too much. “Later.”

  The two of us stride across the great hall, ignoring the guards propped up like posts along the walls. I’ll feel better once I’m outside, away from this damn castle and Midas’s guards who watch us entirely too closely. Yet just as we round a corner, we come across the last person in the world who I want to see right now.

  Midas.

  Beside me, Osrik makes the barest of grunts, loud enough only for me to hear. I’ve had a long time to decipher his wordless noises, and this one is basically the equivalent of calling Midas a fuckhead.

  I more than agree with his assessment.

  Upon spotting us, the Golden King stops on his way into the ballroom, and I barely hold in a glower. The prick looks as pompous as always, with pure golden threads on his tunic, little extra embellishments along the hem and cuffs of his sleeves that he probably stared at in the mirror while he had his hair combed.

  But what really bothers me about him are his shoes.

  You can tell a lot about a man based on the shoes he wears. Midas always wears a new pair. Something shiny and gaudy, with soles that make a metallic click against the tiles like he enjoys boasting that he literally walks on gold.

  “Ah, Ravinger. I’m glad at this chance meeting,” he says as Osrik and I approach. His king’s guard is six men strong, but every single one of them seems unnerved by Osrik as they cast him quick glances.

  Midas is strict about my Wrath’s presence. If they’re in Ranhold, they have to be accompanying me, which is why Lu’s had to sneak around to keep her eye on the prince.

  “Are you?” I reply smoothly, coming to a stop in front of him. My magic tightens like a fist, wanting to punch through my skin and rot him where he stands.

  Midas nods. “I’d actually like to speak with you.”

  I’d actually rather chew iron nails and shit them back out, but the life of a king isn’t easy.

  “Fine.”

  Together, Osrik and I follow Midas inside the ballroom, and my eyes immediately narrow at the sight of the space that’s been partially gilded. Golden tapestries bracket windows nearly forty feet high. Huge pillars along the far wall with darkened veins that were once marble now gleam in metallic luster. The banquet tables are covered in gold tablecloths, and the candelabras set atop them probably weigh more than I do. A corner dais has been erected for musicians, each and every instrument and stool gilt by magic.

  The rest of the room still looks like it did before, with polished white floors and stone walls encased in glass, and a plain mezzanine balcony above. But the amount of power Auren would’ve had to use in order to gold-touch everything else must’ve been exhausting. The pillars alone are an incredible feat, and it pisses me off. That Midas has her use her power like this, nearly draining herself, all to boast his own image. Because this gold does nothing. It’s not for the people to use, it’s not counted in the royal coffers. It’s just a useless, wordless brag.

  There are servants all over the place, cleaning windows, polishing floors, making repairs, or bringing in countless flower arrangements. Ladders have been erected in here too, and palace workers are installing candlesticks and dusting off grand chandeliers that look like sharp icicles ready to plummet.

  Midas runs a critical gaze all around, and the workers seem to stiffen under his presence, each and every one of them making a point to stay busy. He stops walking to better assess the room or maybe just to make himself feel important. “They’re readying the space for the celebratory ball,” he explains.

  Osrik stands to my right as I lean against the wall. “I can see that.”

  From where we just entered, a line of women file inside, and I immediately recognize some of them as Midas’s royal saddles we took from the Red Raids and brought here.

  Dressed in scantily clad gowns that hug every curve, the women all curtsy to Midas, some of them clumsily, their movements too languid, as they follow an old man who’s chattering away at them with obvious orders.

  “My royal saddles,” Midas says with a smile. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” When I say not
hing in return, his eyes move over to me. “If you’d like to make use of them, you need only ask. I’d be more than happy to gift some of them to you for the night.”

  I have to work to keep the disgust off my face. How easily he uses people, like they’re nothing but possessions, toys to be traded. “No, thanks.”

  Midas shrugs. “They’ll be tending to the room during the ball,” he says, once again watching them. “Odo is explaining their duties so they can prepare accordingly. Some of them will be performing, while others will be serving drinks, or whatever else I require of them.”

  He’ll flaunt them as much as he flaunts his supposed wealth.

  “Did you really bring me in here to talk about your ball preparations?” I ask in an impatient tone. The sooner I’m out of his presence, the better.

  A peeved look crosses his face, but he quickly staunches it behind his fake facade. “Always ready to cut to the chase, Ravinger.”

  “It makes for a more honest conversation, don’t you think?”

  Midas gives a sly grin that makes me want to punch it right off his mouth. “Indeed, but one does not stay a king with honest conversations, as you well know.”

  He’s right. When you’re a king, you have to play the game of conversation, and you have to do it better than everybody else. Normally, I’d be able to word twist with the best of them, but I have no patience for that right now. Not with the vision of Auren’s bruised cheek so fresh in my mind. Not with my power itching beneath my skin, begging to be let out. Not with him.

  “What do you want, Midas?”

  He loses his grin and turns to face me, but I don’t like the look in his eye. “I simply wanted to thank you for your continued alliance with Fifth and Sixth Kingdoms. Now that there is no worry of a boundary war, our people can rest a little easier. And after all, that’s what this ball is all about—celebrating alliances and a strong Orea.”

  My mind tries to read between the lines so I can hook onto the words he’s not saying. Midas always has an angle. For years, I let him do what he wanted, so long as he didn’t try any shit with my kingdom.