“I don’t want to be in here with you,” I grit out.
He lies back down, seeming not to care in the slightest. “Captives don’t get to choose where they sleep. Be grateful that you have it as good as you do.”
That sets my hackles rising again as I try to decipher the underlying message. “What’s that supposed to mean? Where are the other saddles? The guards?”
He doesn’t answer me. The bastard just slings an arm over his eyes, like he’s ready to tuck in.
“I asked you a question, Commander.”
“And I chose not to answer,” he replies without moving his arm. “Now be quiet and rest. Unless you need a gag to help suppress the urge to speak?”
My lips press together tightly. He’s awful enough to follow through, so instead of being forced to sleep around a gag all night, I make myself lie back down.
Despite the tincture trying to drag me under, I keep my back against the tent and my eyes on him for over an hour, just in case this is all a trick, just in case he’s waiting to attack when I’m at my most vulnerable during sleep.
But the longer I try to stay awake, the heavier my eyes become.
Every blink stings, like my lids are trying to hold onto each other, scraping against my eyes when I force them open again and again.
Losing the battle, sleep starts to drag me under with the aid of the alcohol and pain suppressant. I finally succumb to the exhaustion that’s been riding me, and I fall asleep, dreaming in the tent of the enemy.
Chapter 8
AUREN
“Come, Auren.”
I look back at Midas, at his outstretched hand. Such a simple gesture to many, but for me, it’s a big deal.
It took me a while to willingly place my palm in his. Every time he did it before, I’d flinch.
But he’s been so patient with me, so kind. I’ve never known kindness before, not since I was a little girl still safe at home with my parents.
I slip my hand into his before I glance longingly back at the fire several yards away, at the group of nomads gathered around it on the grass, the pond glittering behind them.
Midas and I are normally alone on the road, but we’re going to cross out of Second Kingdom soon, and there are always more travelers near the borders. The nomads have been keeping pace with us for a few days now, and I’m curious about them.
“Can’t we share their fire?” I ask as Midas starts to tug me away. The night is balmy with a hint of a breeze, an inky sky dipped with a dusting of stars.
“No, Precious.”
Every time he calls me that, I still get butterflies in my stomach. The fact that anyone would consider me precious, let alone someone as handsome as him, makes me surge with newfound happiness.
I keep thinking that this happiness is going to be torn away—that he’s going to leave, but Midas tells me I don’t ever have to worry about that.
He pulls me to our own small campfire, and I settle myself close to his side. I keep my thigh pressed against his because I crave the contact. Now that I’m getting touches that aren’t meant to hurt, I can’t get enough.
“Why not?” I ask curiously. Midas is so friendly and charismatic. I’m surprised that he doesn’t seem to care for the company of others.
He releases my hand so he can grab the meat he’s been roasting, and he splits off the bigger piece for me. I smile as I take it, biting into the tender meal with relish.
“Because it’s best that we keep to ourselves,” Midas patiently explains while he eats, stripping the meat of the bone. “You can’t trust people, Auren.”
I look across at him, wondering if he’s learned that the hard way, as I have. Neither of us likes to talk about our past, though, and I’m glad he doesn’t needle me. We’re both happier in the here and now.
“I thought it would be nice to have other company,” I admit quietly, slurping the juices from my fingers as I finish up the last of the meat. “We’ve been traveling, just the two of us, for a couple months now. Thought you might be getting bored of me,” I tease, but there’s always a hint of question there, always an edge of self-doubt.
I still don’t understand why someone like him bothers with someone like me.
Midas turns to look at my face, the orange glow of the flames blending with his eyes, making them crackle with warmth. He reaches over and strokes a thumb over my cheek. “I will never get bored of you, Auren. You’re perfect.”
My breath catches in my throat. “You think I’m perfect?”
He leans in and kisses me, and I don’t even mind that our lips are greased with food or that the smoke of the fire clings to my hair. He thinks I’m perfect. He saved me, and he’ll never tire of me, and he thinks I’m perfect enough to kiss.
I didn’t know happiness could ever feel like this.
When he pulls back, his flame-filled eyes caress my face, an adoring look in his expression. “Don’t ever think that I’ll get bored of you or that you aren’t precious to me. You’re my gold-touched girl, right?”
I nod shyly, my tongue darting out to lick my lips, tasting the sweetness of his kiss. This still feels so new, so fragile. My heart is full enough to burst, and I’m always afraid that it will.
“Why me, Midas?” I ask quietly, my question slipping out to float in the air.
It’s one that’s been tumbling silently in my head for weeks, months, ever since he lifted me up from my lonely squalor, stuck in an alleyway with nowhere to go, no one to care.
Maybe I’m finally letting the words out because he breathed some of his unending confidence into me. Or maybe I feel bolder when I’m shadowed by night.
I think some questions can’t bear to face the light. It’s easier for hesitant words and feared answers to be given in the dark. At least then, we can hide them in the shadows—hide ourselves from them.
I wait for him to answer, my fingers curling in the grass, plucking at the blades just so I have something to do with my hands.
Midas taps my chin so I’ll look up at him. “What do you mean?”
I shrug self-consciously. “You could’ve taken anyone else at that village after you got rid of the raiders. There were plenty of others scared and crying,” I say, my eyes dropping down to the top of his gold tunic where the laces have come undone, showing his tanned skin beneath. “Why me? Why did you come into that alleyway and decide to take me with you?”
Midas reaches over and pulls me onto his lap. My stomach leaps at the contact, an automatic reaction caught between having fear of a person’s touch and surprise at liking it. As soon as the initial tension is gone, I settle against him, my head resting on his chest.
“It was always going to be you,” he says quietly. “As soon as I saw your face, I was already lost to you, Auren.” He picks up my hand and places it over his chest. I feel the beat of his life thrum against my fingers, like it’s singing a song just for me. “Hear that? You have my heart, Precious. Always.”
A smile stretches my lips, and I bury my face into his neck, nuzzle against the staccato of his pulse. I feel so light and happy that I’m surprised I don’t float into the air and sparkle with the stars.
He places a kiss on my hair. “Let’s get to bed,” he murmurs before tapping me on the nose. “We can’t oversleep.”
I nod against him, but instead of putting me down, he carries me to the tent, ducking inside. He lays me down on our blanket roll gently, and I fall asleep in his arms, snuggled up against him.
I’m not sure what exactly wakes me up.
Maybe it was a sound. Maybe it was intuition.
I sit up in the dark, noting that there’s no more orange glow floating through our tent, which means the fire has gone out, probably hours ago.
Beside me, Midas is sleeping, soft snores coming from his parted mouth. I smile because those cooed rumbles make him so endearing for some reason, like a secret only I know about him, an innocent vulnerability.
I look around wi
th my head tilted, listening to the quiet night, wondering what could have pulled me out of such a deep sleep.
But I hear nothing. Dawn is probably not too far away though, so I decide to slip quietly out of the tent and go wash up a bit before it’s time to leave.
Outside, I pass the charred and ashen pit of our old fire, and I stretch my arms over my head, looking around at the moonlit surroundings. All is still, nothing out of place, the soft chirping of crickets sounding off near the pond.
I head that way, wanting to take advantage of the empty water while I can. My bare feet sink into the plush grass with every step as I pick my way toward the water. The open plain is dusted with a few trees here and there, and I can see the shadows of the nomads’ tents in the distance, their camp quiet enough that I can tell everyone is still sleeping.
When I get to the pond, I start to undress, toe dipping into the water to get a feel. It’s cold, but not too bad. I’ll just take a quick dip to wash before the sun dawns.
I start to loosen the gold ties at my collar when a hand suddenly slams over my mouth.
Startled, a yelp flies out of me, uselessly caught in the palm of someone’s hand. The person’s other arm comes around me, bending around my throat, making me choke.
“Get her clothes,” the man’s voice barks out against my ear.
My eyes are as wide as saucers as my tunic is tugged, the material pinching my skin painfully.
In my panic, my frenzied senses tell me that there are three of them—two women and the man holding me from behind.
No, not two women, I realize. One of them is just a girl, about my age. I recognize her. This family belongs to the traveling nomads.
I struggle, trying to kick, but the man holds me tighter, making it hard to breathe. “Hold still and this will go better for you,” he says low in my ear.
The woman trying to tear off my shirt looks over her shoulder. “Pass me the knife,” she hisses at her daughter.
The girl is apparently the lookout, but she rushes forward, a glint of metal shining as she passes a pocketknife to her mother. I try to look at her, pleading with my eyes, but she doesn’t even look at me.
I try to buck the man away and tear his arm away from my neck. I attempt to scream past the man’s fingers, teeth gnashing, trying to bite, but he just shoves his fingers in my mouth and presses on my tongue, making me gag.
In the next moment, I hear a slicing sound, and then a bite of pain slashes across my stomach. I scream as the shirt is cut from my body, my long skirt and leggings following directly after.
“Quick! Give me the knife!” the man hisses.
I’m going to die. He’s about to slit my throat, and all I can think is—Midas was right.
You can’t trust people.
The man fists my hair in his hand, blessedly letting go of my neck and my mouth, but I’m too busy gulping in the much-needed air that I don’t have the breath to scream. My throat is so battered, I’m not even sure if I can.
My neck is wrenched to the side as he pulls my hair with an agonizing tug, and then there’s a horrible sawing as he begins to cut through my thick golden tresses.
I’m shoved down onto the ground, naked, scalp screaming, throat bruised.
When the last of my hair is cut, there’s no more grip on my body, so I drop uselessly to the ground like soiled laundry dumped on the floor. I can’t get up, I’m too stuck in shock, too focused on taking in one ragged inhale after another.
If they say anything to me, I don’t hear it. All I know is their footsteps run away, taking their menacing shadows with them, and then I’m alone, crumpled in a heap at the edge of the pond. One foot is lying ankle-deep in the cold water while the rest of me is sunken into the grass, but I don’t feel it.
I’m not sure how long I lie there, but I’m too afraid to move. Too afraid to get up and find Midas. Too afraid of everything.
But Midas finds me. Just like before, in that alleyway, he finds me broken on the ground, beneath a watching moon.
I hear him call my name, hear him curse. Then he’s gathering me into his arms, and my tears fall down as he lifts me up.
I cry into his golden tunic, my tears soaking through to his chest—that chest that’s still beating, still singing to me.
I feel the scratchy, crooked ends of my shorn hair scrape against my cheeks. I feel the slice on my stomach where the sloppy blade cut into my skin. But mostly, I just feel fear.
Midas takes care of me, and even though I know I must look ugly now, and that he must be angry that I left the tent without him, he doesn’t say anything. He simply washes the green stains off my skin, cleans the cut on my belly, and kisses my wet cheeks.
All the while, his earlier declaration becomes my mantra, one that makes my heart harden, makes my fear solidify, makes me want to hide away from the world forever.
You can’t trust people.
The only person I can trust is him.
I promise myself right then and there, that from now on, that’s what I’ll do. I will always trust him, in all things, because he knows what’s best. He’s always right.
I’m done with the ugliness of this world, and I want him to keep me safe from it.
All of it.
Chapter 9
AUREN
The brush of silken tendrils across my swollen cheek wakes me up.
As my eyes peel open, I see my ribbons stretching, curling, moving slowly around me, as if testing for tenderness. I smile at the soft golden glow of them, immediately noting how much better they look and feel. I can actually move them without wincing.
I sit up, careful to keep the furs from falling off, because the pre-dawn morning chill is stark. The coals have long since turned cold with ash, and the tent is dark. I can see the shadowed silhouette of the commander’s body stretched out on his furs, his breaths steady and quiet.
It’s not too surprising that he’s still asleep, since the sun hasn’t risen yet. But seeing him asleep like this, without the pressing demand of his power, without the harsh scowl...it makes him seem different. Less threatening.
I find myself watching him, studying the smooth lines of his face. I’m curious what the silvery scales along his cheekbones would feel like if I touched them. I wonder if it hurts to have his spikes retracted beneath his skin for so long or if he doesn’t even feel it.
But mostly, I wonder what kind of power he carries in his veins. Whatever he’s capable of, it’s vast and ruthless. I can sense it.
His power must be the reason why King Ravinger wields him like a hammerhead. But how did the king even find him? How does he keep the truth from the masses?
Are people so content in ignorance that they’ll believe every lie fed to them, despite what they see right in front of their eyes? Then again, perhaps it isn’t ignorance. Maybe it’s just...fear. They don’t want to even consider the alternative. It would make people uneasy, make it hard to sleep at night.
Maybe ignorance isn’t a vice, but a reprieve. And a reprieve into ignorance is something I’ve done myself, many times.
Commander Rip makes a noise in his sleep, low and rumbling, like a faraway quake of the earth, shifting plates that I can almost feel beneath unsteady feet.
He didn’t touch me last night.
Even in my exhausted sleep, he never once tried to take advantage, never even got up from his pallet. I wasn’t chained or watched or hurt. He wasn’t even worried that I’d do something to him while he slept.
Being his captive...it isn’t what I expected. It’s mind games rather than physical harassment. It’s pointed questions instead of vague threats.
I don’t trust it one bit.
One of my ribbons curls in front of my face, moving in a clear order to get going. I bat it away playfully, carefully peeling away from the furs as I quietly get to my feet.
My body is sore, my bruised side twinging as soon as I stand, but at least my shoulder feels better, so whatever
ointment Hojat used on me must’ve helped. The tonic clearly helped too, because while I’m still aching, it’s not nearly as bad as it was yesterday.
I’m immediately cold without the covers, goose bumps rising along my skin. I wish I could dive back beneath the warmth of my pallet, but instead, I grab my dress from where it’s hung and yank it over my head.
With the aid of my ribbons, I get dressed quickly and quietly. I’m so relieved at how much better they feel after only a night’s rest. With one eye on the commander, I slip into my leggings and boots before snatching up the gloves and pulling them on nearly to my elbows, and then I tug on my coat.
I plait my hair in a simple braid down my back that I quickly stuff into the hood of the coat before pulling it over my head. Finished, my ribbons slip beneath the coat and wrap around my torso in loose yet secure loops, adding another layer of insulation.
I creep to the entrance of the tent and duck out, casting one last glance back at the commander. I doubt he’s much of a heavy sleeper, and I don’t want to be caught sneaking out before dawn.
As soon as I’m outside, my breath hitches with the lonely cold that greets me like the empty bedside of an absent lover.
With boots crunching over packed snow, I head toward the latrine so I can get it over with, while the hint of morning begins to cast a gray pallor over the sky.
It seems even colder today than it was last night. My teeth are chattering loudly by the time I leave the latrine, just in time for it to start snowing. I walk back to camp briskly, trying to get my blood moving so I don’t feel so frozen, and I’m greeted by the sounds of the army waking up.
The scent of food drifts over, and I turn to follow it, letting my nose lead me. I pick my way past tents and grumbling men, some yawning, some coughing up phlegm, past more who are breaking down their tents to ready for another day of travel.
Glint (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 2) Page 5