Gleam (The Plated Prisoner Series Book 3)

by Raven Kennedy

  Keon points his fork at him. “You jilt me, and I swear to the Divines, you will regret it.”

  “Ooh,” Manu purrs. “How positively titillating.”

  Keon snorts.

  My lips tilt up, their banter making this dinner seem not so awful after all. “How long have you two been married?”

  “Three months,” Manu chirps.

  “Three years,” Keon corrects with a roll of his eyes before he steals more food off his husband’s plate.

  “Ah, that’s right,” Manu says, plopping a grape in his mouth. “Time flies when you’re riding good c—”

  “Carriages,” Keon quickly intervenes, cutting him off with an elbow to the arm, stealing hurried looks at the frowning advisors.

  Manu grins at him, rubbing the spot where his husband jabbed him, and I think these are my two new favorite people ever.

  “Do you guys play drinking games?” I ask, perking up.

  Manu snaps his fingers and points at me. “See? I knew I liked you. I can always spot the fun ones.”

  With a smile, I try to find the damn serving girl, but she and my wine are still nowhere in sight. My mouth is watering from all the smells of the food. The very second the sun sets, I’ll be stuffing my face and downing a cup.

  “I’ve told the servants you’re not to drink wine tonight.”

  Midas’s words startle me, jerking my head in his direction. “Why not?”

  He looks at me coolly, and there’s something there, some flicker that I hadn’t noticed until right now. “Because I said so.”

  The curled up creature inside of me yawns, the stretch of anger waiting to see if it wants to awaken. Midas is wound up tonight, either because of Third’s presence or something else.

  And then it hits me.

  He knows. Of course Scofield and the others would’ve reported to him that Rip carried me to my room. My stomach ties into knots, and worry flares in my head. Did he do something to Digby because of it?

  Or...would he prefer to punish me?

  I can feel eyes on me, loaded gazes watching us, and it makes my anger flush with a wave of embarrassment. Yet I keep my attention on Midas, on the critical glaze in his eyes.

  “I don’t want you getting obnoxious on wine, Precious,” he says with scathing politeness, making heat hit my cheeks at implying in front of everyone that I’m some sort of lush unfit for company.

  “Am I allowed to have water, Your Majesty?” My tone is on the bad side of saccharine, too smarmy to be sincere, and I know I’ve gone too far.

  Beneath the table, his hand comes down hard on my thigh, and I tense as he pinches the skin hard between his finger and thumb. Even though he’s doing it over my skirt, it still hurts, the fabric barrier doing nothing to block the sharp pain.

  Harder and harder, he squeezes, but I school my face. I don’t let myself flinch. I don’t even blink. He can pop off the skin for all I care, and I’ll still sit rooted here like a damned daisy, because I won’t give him the satisfaction of wilting.

  The table has grown quiet beneath mine and Midas’s stare down, his attention on me just a few seconds too long, his face just a few degrees too harsh with his supposed favored.

  “My father didn’t trade with Thirders, and I can’t imagine why we’d start now with how high your trade tax is,” Prince Niven drawls, his young, nasally voice distracting Midas. “Can Third’s resources truly justify their worth for that kind of fee?”

  Everyone looks at the queen now instead of me, her fork pausing on its way to her mouth. Niven sure has his princely pompousness down, but when it comes to tact, he’s severely lacking.

  Midas’s hand thankfully drops away from my leg, leaving the spot throbbing in pain. My skin prickles as blood rushes up to it, but I ignore it in favor of the political drama.

  Before Midas can smooth things over, the queen looks at the prince with an edge of provocation. “We Thirders don’t need to trade with your ice people, Prince Niven,” she says coolly, tone as sharp as the spires on her glittering crown. “Third Kingdom flourishes, with ten times more resources than your slab of snow. King Midas invited us here to strengthen our alliance, and we are here because it could be beneficial to our people. But make no mistake, you need us more than we need you.”

  Prince Niven blushes furiously in a patchwork of raggedy reds across his cheeks and neck, but Midas intervenes before the boy can shove his foot in his mouth again. “Sixth and Fifth Kingdoms are grateful for your presence, Queen Kaila. Any new trade agreements we can come to will surely benefit all those involved.”

  She gives a terse nod, while her brother Manu, no longer looking so jovial, leans in and whispers something into her ear.

  When Manu settles back, the queen takes a drink, seeming to gather herself and dissipate the tension in her face. “I forget how young you are, Prince Niven, and still mourning your father. You are indeed lucky that King Midas has come to aid you in this time of transition for rule.”

  In other words, you’re an idiot, kid.

  Niven sits up in his chair, as if to make himself look taller, older, though his baby face and the cowlick at the back of mussy brown hair kind of kills it. “My thirteenth year is only two months away.”

  Kaila smirks. “Ah, thirteen,” she says reflectively. “That’s when my powers manifested. You remember, Manu?” she asks, turning toward her brother.

  “How could I not?” he replies, letting the smile hang on his mouth in a clear play of realigning the conversation. “You used to make me mute so I couldn’t tell on you to Mother and Father.”

  Her lips twist. “You deserved it.”

  “Probably,” he concedes.

  The prince frowns. “I thought you had the power to pull voices toward you? To hear every whisper in the room?”

  Well, shit. I need to remember never to speak secrets anywhere near her.

  Midas cuts him a sharp look, but the prince is so oblivious he only shoves a spoonful of stew into his mouth.

  “My magic can do many things,” Kaila says cryptically. “Some people who annoy me enough with the abuse of their voice lose the privilege of having it.”

  My gaze cuts over to a red-faced Niven. Beside me, Midas’s foot taps on the floor six times in tense aggravation.

  Niven nods. “My power will develop soon, and it will benefit Fifth Kingdom. My advisors estimate that I’ll have stronger magic than even my father. Perhaps even more than anyone in this room.”

  I nearly snort aloud. If the prince notices the steam coming from Midas’s and Kaila’s ears, he pretends not to notice as he keeps going, obviously trying to win Most Pretentious Little Prick Prince prize in all of Orea. He’s a shoe-in.

  “Now, King Ravinger...there’s power,” Niven goes on, looking up and down the table to see who agrees with him. Nobody meets his eye. “Too much, if you ask me. His rotting magic leeched into Fifth’s lands when he got here. You probably saw it on your way in. That, and his loitering army,” he says before slurping another sip of stew. “We were forced to give over a piece of land or face his army’s attack.”

  As if on cue, Slade strides into the room right then, dark voice whipping out without pause. “I think you got the better end of the deal, don’t you?”

  Chapter 19

  AUREN

  Every single person at the table stiffens at Slade’s sudden appearance. But me...my body seems to relax for the first time since I came in here. My ribbons loosen, their lengths slipping out of their drapery, ends slinking beneath the table like they want to slither right over to him.

  I get a bit of tunnel vision as my attention locks onto him, and my lips go warm, once again remembering the press of his mouth and the nip of his teeth.

  Great Divine, that kiss.

  His green eyes sweep the room, onyx hair perfectly disheveled and body encased head-to-toe in black tailored clothes with a simple brown leather strap around his waist. His gaze doesn’t land on me exactly,
but I swear I see the slightest twitch of his lips curve up.

  Slade walks into the room with all of the swagger befitting his uncompromising confidence. Behind him is his Wrath, each of them in full armor, including helmets. The only reason I can tell it’s them is because Osrik’s hulking form can’t be missed, and neither can Lu’s featherlight tread. Judd walks just behind her with a relaxed swing of his arms, while the fourth in the group...

  My eyes flick back and forth from Slade to the Rip look-alike. Slade swaggers, but Fake Rip stalks. With booted steps striding forward, curved spikes protruding from the arms and back of his armor, he looks every bit the army commander I’ve come to know.

  Except for one thing. No aura pulses around him. No inky presence of his essence hovers in the air. This person is definitely an impersonation. The question is...who the hell is he?

  “King Ravinger,” Midas declares, watching as the four Wrath take up spots against the wall of the dining room, Ranhold’s guards shuffling out of the way to accommodate them. “When you didn’t arrive at the stated dining time, I assumed you had other obligations.”

  A verbal jab, letting it be known that Midas doesn’t appreciate Slade’s tardiness.

  “Pardon,” Slade replies as he sits down across from the prince and begins helping himself to the platters of food. “I didn’t intend to leech off of Fifth Kingdom’s dining niceties, but time got away from me.”

  Niven goes as pale as his chowder, but for once, the prince has the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

  The passing minutes are so thick with tension that it would take a knife sharper than the one at my place setting to cut through it. Everyone eats and talks while I push around my food and bob my head politely whenever someone says something, while my internal clock ticks.

  The monarchs are all sliding looks at each other when one isn’t looking, their words nothing more than riddles fluent in derision or rife with fake flattery. The only one as quiet as me is Slade.

  My eyes lift of their own volition to steal a look at his profile. I glance over the cut of his jaw, the reaching power barely visible behind the high collar of his shirt. Like he feels my attention, deep green eyes flash over to me, and I snatch my gaze away, trying to keep still as I stir my food around.

  I shouldn’t look at him. Not with the way my heart is pounding, not with the observant eyes at this table.

  And yet, the moment I look away, I swear I feel a brush of his gaze against my cheek again, as if he feels the pull too, the crave to collide. Instead of falling into that trap, I let my eyes rove over his Wrath.

  Osrik stands like part-giant against the wall, more pillar than man, like he could hold up the entire ceiling if it came down. To be honest, he probably could.

  Judd is next to him, head scanning left and right, while Lu stands perfectly still, hand resting on the sword at her hip, perhaps to remind people that she might be the smallest of the four, but she’s just as deadly.

  If any of them notice me sitting here, they don’t let on.

  As for the Rip look-alike...

  My eyes fall to him the most.

  I can’t help it. I keep trying to pick his appearance apart, as if I can spot all the differences. Yet apart from the empty space where his aura should be pulsing, there’s nothing I can see that gives me any hint as to who he really is.

  “King Midas, I don’t think I complimented you on the throne room yet. It was positively stunning,” Queen Kaila gushes.

  “A gift to Prince Niven,” Midas says smoothly, as if he did it for anyone other than himself.

  “It was very generous,” the boy murmurs in monotone.

  Queen Kaila’s lips pull up in a smile. “You know, I have always been captivated by your power, King Midas.”

  “It’s nothing,” he replies with an easy smile.

  I bristle. My ribbons sharpen like bared fangs.

  It’s nothing.

  Nothing.

  My fingers clamp tightly around my spoon. So many times I’ve drained myself for this man, just for him to pretend that it’s his power and it’s nothing.

  That angry creature prods my ribs, rapping to get out. Coils of ribbons slither down my legs like serpents searching to pierce a vein and tear into sinewy muscle, but I hold them back.

  “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that your power comes so easily to you,” Kaila replies. “Magic can be a fickle thing.”

  “It can,” he readily agrees. “But I mastered it long ago.”

  Mastered it.

  It feels like my stomach turns to ash, burnt down by the flare of fire erupting from the throat of my cloying fury.

  Mastered me, he means, this complete and utter piece of shit—

  “So magnificent,” Queen Kaila says. “Could you show us?”

  The hand on his goblet goes still, his eyes locking onto her. “Show you?”

  The queen nods with excitement, her eyes glittering. “You wouldn’t mind, would you? I’ve heard so many stories of how awe-inspiring it is, and I would love a demonstration. I assumed since you’ve mastered it so completely, it isn’t such a terrible imposition? My brother and I would adore seeing it.”

  Midas may look at her with that courtly smile still plastered on his face, but I see the tightness in his jaw. Feel the six taps of his heel on the floor.

  In just a few short sentences, Kaila has trapped him. If he were to deny her, it would make him appear either weak or disagreeable. Neither of those things are what Midas is trying to prove.

  After a silence that stretches on a few beats too long, he tips his head. “Of course, Queen Kaila. I would be happy to.”

  She beams at him, looking so young and pretty, and yet there’s a thread of cunning that gleams in her gaze, as if this is a test.

  “Auren, pass me your goblet, would you?” Midas turns to me, eyes flickering with pointed demand. We’ve played this game so many times. We’ve fooled so many people.

  But right now, the fuming anger is in control, and the only person I want the fool to be is him.

  With a saccharine smile on my face, I pick up the goblet and hold it out to him. In the past, I’d make sure to do a quick sleight of hand to make my skin touch the object at just the right moment as I passed it over, so that by the time my gold was spreading, it was firmly in his grasp.

  But I do nothing.

  Midas’s carob-pod eyes darken and deaden, falling off a branch to land down at my gloved hand. When he lifts that gaze again, we stay in limbo, both of us holding the cup, staring at each other in equal challenge.

  His gaze is an order.

  Mine is a threat.

  In these loaded, heavy seconds, a tense silence stretches across the table, bound by the unwavering looks knotted between the Golden King and his gilded pet.

  A tic appears in Midas’s jaw, and while his smile is still plastered on his handsome face, there’s a fury there buried in the depths, ready to dig me out and crush my defiance with a fist. I manage to keep the smile on my face with innocent levity, but my golden irises spark with the light of a fire.

  He’s always towered over me to cast me in his shadow, and a shadow doesn’t like it when you burn it straight through. My chest leaps at the power I’m manipulating by not using my power at all. At everyone staring, waiting for him to perform.

  And he can’t.

  “Are you going to let go?” he asks lightly, as though it’s a joke, though it’s belied by the hardness in his jaw.

  Are you going to do as you’re told? he’s really saying.

  What would you do if I didn’t? my gaze says.

  Seconds drag by of this public power play.

  Several chairs down, I swear I can feel a rumbling laugh, though it’s silent inside a black-clad chest. My own seems to puff up a little bit more.

  Midas yanks the goblet away from me and looks down the table with an amused look. “Apologies, I’m often distracted by my favored,” he says to excuse
away our exchange, making a few people laugh politely.

  His eyes move to the windows behind us, and I see the infuriated panic in the tightening of his lips as he realizes that night is about to descend. He has minutes, maybe even seconds. My power is about to go dormant, and his temper is burgeoning.

  “Understandable. She is a beauty,” Keon says, shooting me a wink, but everyone is wondering. Doubting. Not quite understanding. For the first time, the pet has turned on her master, and the master doesn’t like seeing fangs bared that he thought he’d muzzled.

  Midas leans in, not near enough to touch my skin, of course. He’s far too meticulous for that. “Careful, Precious,” he whispers, voice dropped down to a breath.

  My rebellion falters beneath his smile pitched in threat. Midas looks at me to imbue his warning, though he pulls away like a king who just whispered intimate secrets to his favored saddle.

  Digby. I have to think of Digby.

  Crunching up my pride like torn paper in a fist, I discreetly tug off my glove in my lap. Lifting back up, I pretend to reach for a serving spoon, thankful for the icicle centerpiece that juts up in front of me. With intent attention, I time it precisely so that as soon as Midas sets his goblet down, I drag my bare palm against the glass tabletop right beside it and let my power unleash.

  Gold erupts like a gushing wound bleeding across the table.

  Several gasps ring out as the liquid spreads from beneath Midas’s goblet and spills into the entire length of the table like reaching floodwaters. It swallows the glass in its shiny pall, dripping down the sides and curling down the edges to spread beneath. Within moments, the entire table is gilded, the centerpiece of jagged icicles now reaching up like clawed fingers of golden greed.

  Midas’s shoulders noticeably relax, and across from him, Queen Kaila claps. “How exquisite, King Midas,” she says with a grin, her tanned fingers running over the polished metal.

  Keon laughs jovially. “Indeed. Why go for the goblet when you can gild the whole table?”

  Midas gives a bared-teeth smile. “Exactly what I was thinking.” His malignant attention settles on my face, scraping it raw. “Did you enjoy that, Precious?”