My stomach heaves, bile rising in my throat.
“Poison!” another person shouts as Niven’s body is carried away.
“No, look at him!” a man in a bright purple dress suit calls out, shaky finger pointing. “Look at his veins! This is the work of King Rot!”
Everyone seems to jerk their gazes toward his dark countenance at the same time. Eyes bouncing from the lines on Niven’s neck to the lines that always reside on Slade’s.
My chest goes tight, breath stolen between the uproar that punches out through the people as their shock quickly turns to blame.
I’m not sure when his Wrath arrived, but aside from an absent Fake Rip, they’re all circling Slade, their formation tightening around him. Slade’s face is grim, hands hanging down at his sides, the mood in the room gone from celebratory to accusatory in the blink of an eye.
“People, people!” Midas calls out, palms held up to gesture that they listen. “That is a very serious allegation!”
“King Rot killed our prince!” a woman cries in hysterics, making everyone erupt into a frenzy again.
My heart drops right down through my toes as I watch everything unfold, as I remember what he said.
I own half of Orea.
Not yet.
You won’t be saying that after tonight.
My mind riots, fury rising up, because this is him. This scheme, this murder, is Midas’s doing. He’s orchestrated yet another monarch’s death and pinned the blame on someone else.
Midas turns to Slade, as if he’s both troubled and repelled at the very thought. “King Ravinger, we will have to detain you for these accusations.”
“You can fucking try,” Osrik snarls beside him, his voice booming from beneath his helmet.
The entire room bristles with outrage. And I can see it—the secret smirk in Midas’s eye.
No.
Like this is a ball of unravelling yarn, I know how the string will roll out. There’s no way Slade will go willingly. Even from here, I can feel something building in him, feel that nauseating, deathly power of his coiling in the air.
My feet are moving before I even blink. I’m tugging and pulling at the ribbon, forcing it down, until I can slip one of my hands out from its hold, leaving only my left wrist still bound with its loops.
Midas isn’t just here to take over Fifth and marry into Third. It’s not enough for him. It’s never enough. And Slade is the most powerful opponent he’s ever faced.
So Midas figured out a way to take him out too.
Didn’t Slade tell me himself that he doesn’t make a move against Midas because of the people? For the very reason of what I see playing out in the ballroom right now?
They’ll hate him, rise up against him. The other monarchs will attack his kingdom. He’ll become the scapegoat for everyone to hate.
Slade will have no choice but to retaliate tonight, just to ensure Midas doesn’t throw him in a dungeon, leaving him to rot like his name. Since Slade won’t let that happen, that means he’ll use his power to get out of here and seal his kingdom’s fate.
I can’t let that happen.
Something in me, that brewing storm held against a sunlit sea, it starts to crackle. That creature nesting in the clouds of my electric anger calls out, her screech like thunder.
Like a gust of air catapults me, I rush toward the mezzanine door. I turn the handle and let myself out as the beat of my heart thrashes like pounding waves against my ribs.
Down the stairs, I pass a foursome of guards, two of which are Scofield and Lowe, the other two I recognize from that cold, dim room. I catch them off guard by my sudden appearance, but I don’t stop, even though my anger is hurled at them with a lashing tongue.
“My lady!” Scofield calls.
“I am not your lady.” My tone has no softness, no familiarity. It’s spoken from my mouth, and yet, the voice is harder, flatter, carrying hate and betrayal with every press of teeth.
Scofield’s steps falter as I rush past, either from the disdain in my voice or the guilt he bears. In fact, none of the guards move to bar me, and I wonder if it’s because of the shame they carry for their part in my torture.
Good.
The ribbon tied around my wrist sears against my skin, burning with the same anger that’s brewing in my veins.
I hope they’re thinking of what they did to me. I hope Scofield is remembering his fingers mashing the petals into my mouth. Or how they all pinned me against the wall while Midas cut off my ribbons. I hope they never stop hearing my screams from that room, because I certainly won’t.
The archway of the ballroom is a gaping mouth that I get swallowed into. It’s only taken me seconds to get from the mezzanine to down here, but the atmosphere of the crowd has worsened, brewing its own kind of storm. The people have surged forward as close to the dais as they can get, while servants and saddles are pressed against the walls.
I push myself through the gilded room, and for once, everyone is too focused on something else to pay me any notice at all. The guards get lost in the throng, unable to follow my path as I slip past people. My feet take me straight to the side of the dais, where Ranhold guards are now circling Slade and his Wrath.
Even with the anger of the crowd, everyone has enough sense to stay back, and it isn’t because of Osrik’s, Lu’s, and Judd’s imposing figures. No, what holds them back is Slade himself.
The capricious lines of his power are coiling around his neck like aggravated snakes writhing on the ground. They move and shift, disappearing beneath the black scruff on his jaw, leading down to sink beneath his collar.
My heart clamps at the sight of Slade as people shout and curse at him. His magic hisses, hitting me with a wave of queasiness, and the ground beneath his feet seems to pucker and rumble.
But I don’t fear him. Not even with his threatening power that branches around his skin. Not even with the vicious glint in his eye, or with the twisted wood crown on his head that makes him look every bit the rotten king.
I know what they see, but it isn’t what I see, and this isn’t his fault. He’s simply been set up to take the fall so that Midas can continue to rise.
How much more of me are you going to take?
Everything.
It’s not just me that Midas is going to take from. Being the king of Sixth isn’t enough, and taking Fifth was just the beginning. He’s marrying Third, making Fourth the enemy...and what next? Will he move on to Second and First too? Will he stop then?
But I know the answer to that already.
Midas won’t ever stop.
He may not have magic, but his strength lies in his scheming manipulations, and it’s terrifying to realize just how powerful he’s truly become.
Slade locks eyes with me, finding me in the middle of the crowd, and maybe he can see the fear in my face, because whatever power was brewing inside of him stutters to an instant stop. The nauseous effect of his magic cuts off at the stem, the furrowing floor ceasing its rooting rumble.
The soldiers take advantage of the pause and close in on him, and dread spikes down my spine. He’s going to push and push until Slade snaps. Midas wants him to break the treaty, dissolve the alliance, back Slade into a corner.
“Take him!” Midas shouts, just as Osrik lets out a vicious bellow, a sword held in each hand.
“Stop!” I shove my way past the rest of the people, plowing straight through the line of gilt guards. They balk at my intrusion and then immediately back away, ensuring they don’t touch me, though they don’t lower their swords.
Within seconds, I’m standing in front of Slade like a shield, chest heaving. “Don’t touch him.”
My shout is for the crowd, but my words are for Midas.
We’ve locked eyes, both of us on opposite ends of the dais. There might be hundreds of spectators, but all I see is him.
“What are you doing, Auren?” Midas nearly hisses. “Get away from him right now
and come to me.”
I give him a slow shake of my head. “Never.”
Never again.
A tic appears in Midas’s jaw.
“I won’t let you take him too.”
He’s taken everything else from me, just like he promised. He even took our past. But I won’t let Midas take Slade.
So caught up in my stare-off with Midas, I almost forgot about the male at my back. A dark, forbidding voice slips out from between his lips and tangles down my spine. “Auren...”
“Don’t use your magic,” I beg, glancing at Slade over my shoulder. “It’s what he wants, to make you even more hated and feared. Don’t give that to him.”
“He deserves no less.”
“No, but you deserve more,” I murmur.
A rigid tension fits between my shoulder blades, but it isn’t fear as I take a public stand against Midas. We are inherently protective of our lives, to do whatever we have to do to make it through. It’s an inner instinct, and one I’ve always followed. Biologically, we are meant to preserve, to survive. But surviving isn’t my intent at this moment. Right now, I want to fight.
“Lower your swords away from my favored!” Midas shouts, making the guards flinch, blades drooping.
“I’m not your favored,” I declare, not caring that we have a crowd, not caring that Queen Kaila is staring daggers at me or that her brother is looking at me with something like pity. “King Ravinger didn’t kill Prince Niven. You did.” My voice cracks like a whip, ripping out gasps from the onlookers.
Midas’s eye twitches, twin patches of red bursting across furious cheeks. “Clear the room!”
There’s a shocked pause, and then various soldiers start to push the crowd back to empty the ballroom. But the people are resistant and angry at being ordered away. They’re too caught up in the spectacle, wanting to watch this play out, wanting to know who’s really at fault.
“Who killed our prince?” someone demands.
“We deserve to know!”
More shouts lift up like a chorus, their voices growing belligerent as the guards start using more force to shove them out.
Midas begins to stalk forward but jerks to a stop again when the Wrath close in around me. Not in threat, but in protection. Slade has stepped closer too, the heat of his chest burning against my back.
That one simple move makes something ugly appear in Midas’s eyes. Realization seems to dawn as he looks between Slade and me, and maybe my previous words finally sink in. I won’t let you take him too.
And I won’t, because—
“He’s mine.” My voice is strong, unwavering. Just a vicious growl of protective fury.
A wicked satisfaction purrs in my chest at the hateful shock on Midas’s face.
“It was him?” he accuses, tone bitten out between his clenched teeth.
“Like I tried to tell your torturer, it sure wasn’t me.”
Everyone whips their heads around to see Fake Rip walking forward with a stumbling Digby slung at his side.
My eyes widen, heartbeat faltering. Not just at the sight of my guard up and out of that awful room, but for the first time ever, Fake Rip’s helmet is nowhere to be seen.
Though he still wears the rest of his spiked armor, his face is finally visible. My gaze runs over him with greedy curiosity, entranced by the pale skin, the scruff of his jaw, the angles of his face, and I’m instantly struck by the familiarity.
Great Divine, Fake Rip is Slade’s damned brother.
They look so much alike. If it weren’t for the slight differences I can pick out like the darker green eyes, the narrower face, the difference in expression, and the lack of an aura, I’d think that he was Slade.
“Stop right there,” Midas orders.
Fake Rip and Digby pause short of the dais, two of the soldiers breaking off to detain them, while more shouts rise from the crowd. The people are still fighting as they’re herded out, but the guards push and shove, lined up like a human wall to force them out.
“Auren, come here right now,” Midas demands, finger pointed to the ground beside him.
“We’re leaving,” I declare, my determination fortified by the weight of my tone. I let my gaze skip to Manu—the queen’s brother and advisor. “You’d be wise to do the same.” A flicker of doubt flashes over his face as he shares a brief look with his husband.
“Auren,” Midas says threateningly.
“Oh, let her go, Tyndall,” Queen Kaila says airily, coming up to stand beside him. “It’s clear that her loyalty lies with Fourth Kingdom. Let her lose her favor. It’s what she deserves.”
Though Kaila’s words are meant to bite, they don’t leave their mark on me. Yes, I want to say. Let me go.
Troubled calculations war on Midas’s face as he attempts to scheme his way out of this.
“I’m done, Midas,” I say quietly. “It’s over.”
The last fragile string that tied me to him was the fact that I thought he’d saved me all those years ago. It was his one redeeming quality. But that too has been snipped away as the lie came to light.
He thinks he can throw me in a cage again and keep me drugged, but Slade will never let that happen, and neither will I.
I’ve put him on the spot now. Forced his hand, as he’s forced mine so many times. He’s out-magicked with Slade, has to keep up appearances with his new bride-to-be, and hopefully, I’ve cast enough doubt in front of the people that Fourth Kingdom won’t suffer for the death of Prince Niven.
It’s all there in my face as I watch Midas. The determination. The refusal. He didn’t overplay his hand, he just didn’t realize that there was another player at the table.
A long, tense moment passes, with only the shuffling sound of feet being funneled through the ballroom archway.
“You want to leave? To be the whore of King Rot?” Midas spits.
The low growl from Slade behind me sends a shiver down my neck.
My teeth grit at that word, but I don’t let it show on my face. “Better the whore to the man at my back than the favored to you.”
Midas moves forward, maybe to try and strangle me where I stand, but Slade steps in front of me so fast he’s just a blur of movement. “You take one more step, and I’ll rot you where you stand.” Tension roils off Slade’s shoulders, billowing black with the blight of his magic, and I know he means every word.
You say the word, and it’s done. I’d end him in a breath, in a room full of people who’d run screaming, with monarchs who’d band together against me. If you wanted me to do it, I would.
Slade’s words ring in my ears as loud as the croon of my creature.
Gently, I reach up and press a hand against his back, the tense muscles bunching beneath my touch. Slade turns to face me, eyes drawn in like shutters. “Don’t,” I whisper. “I won’t let him make you into the villain.”
A gaze as sharp as thorns hooks into me, holds me hostage. “I told you, I’ll be the villain for you.”
Resolve bolsters my spine. “Yes. But so will I.”
Chapter 48
AUREN
Maybe Midas is too bold, but he takes another step so he’s only a few feet away, gaze moving quickly from the last stragglers of the crowd and then back to me.
“You want to leave, Auren?” he asks, his quiet tone belying something sinister that simmers beneath the surface.
“Yes.”
His jaw grinds, mine locks.
Seconds, minutes, hours seem to pass as we stare each other down. The king and the pet, the crime lord and the painted girl, the liar and the fool.
He lifts his chin and jerks it up. “Then go.”
It takes a moment for me to comprehend what he said.
He walks over with hate in his eye, looking us up and down. “Let Ravinger’s pollution leave this kingdom,” he announces with open disdain.
Slade wastes no time turning to me and the others. “Let’s go.”
&nb
sp; I’m stunned for a moment, so surprised that all I can do is stand there and stare at Midas.
He agreed. He actually agreed.
I’m going to be able to walk right out the front door, and I won’t have to hide or flee. I stopped Slade from unleashing his power and potentially causing the rest of Orea to wage war against him.
But that split second of self-satisfied victory is all I get. Because in the next blink, Midas’s guards have shoved at the Wrath, and an eruption of retaliation breaks out between them. Unfortunately, I realize a second too late that it’s just a distraction.
Midas grabs me, my back hitting his chest, making a burst of pain erupt down my spine. Before the black dots can leave my vision, I have a blade pressed against my throat.
“Use your magic, and I’ll slice her open!”
My hearing wanes as I breathe through the agony of my back, but when I blink enough to clear my eyes, I find Slade two feet away, looking absolutely fucking murderous.
“Let her go. Now.”
His voice is a rupture of violent threat so cold that I actually shiver.
“Hold back your rot and your soldiers, Ravinger,” Midas threatens, and I feel the edge of sharpness digging into my skin. I hiss in pain as the blade sinks in, and feel something wet dribble down.
Slade’s green eyes bleed black. “You are a fucking dead man.”
I can practically feel the satisfaction hum in Midas’s chest. Slade showed his hand—showed that he’s not willing to chance me getting hurt.
I scrabble against Midas’s arm, trying to pull it away from my neck, but his hold is too firm, and one knock against my back makes me arch in pain. The blade digs in with a silent order to hold still, right over a healed scar in the same exact spot.
Automatically, my wide eyes lock onto Digby, and I know we’re both remembering when Fulke held me the same way. It was a different blade and a different king, but the threat was the same. Death’s promise held against my throat.
But this time, Digby can’t save me.
Midas holds me tighter, backing up a step as I look around wildly at the guards that circle him, at the Wrath held at bay, bodies tense, like they’re just waiting for Slade’s order. At Digby’s wide-eyed face, his broken body still held up by Fake Rip.
Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3) Page 48