Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

Osrik leads me to a large tent, one that’s different from the others. It’s clearly a meeting space, based on its size and shape—rounded, like a tent in a royal tournament.

I follow him inside, finding furs on the floor and a circular table in the middle of the space. Three soldiers are sitting there on stools, speaking with the commander, who sits directly across from the doorway. When they see us enter, everyone’s head turns, their attention landing on me.

Rip’s eyes shift to his men. “We’ll reconvene later.”

The soldiers nod and stand up, shooting me assessing looks as they leave.

When it’s just the three of us, I hesitate near the entry. Commander Rip is studying me in that unnerving way of his, looking no different than he did this morning, except the spikes on his arms seem to be shorter than usual, like he’s retracted them partially.

“Have a seat,” he finally says.

I skirt the table, choosing the spot farthest from his. He smirks as I pull out the stool, as if he knew I would choose to sit here. I glare at him. His smirk widens.

Osrik gathers the papers laid out on the table, and I silently kick myself for not taking the time to try and study them while I had the chance. I see a hint of a map and some written missives before Osrik removes them, letting them roll up to prop against a wall of the tent.

With the tabletop now clear except for a couple of lanterns, I glance around nervously. For some reason, the emptiness of the space makes the commander’s attention more daunting.

There’s nothing else for me to focus on, nothing else to distract me. Maybe he planned it that way.

Osrik pulls out the stool beside the commander and sits down, though I’m not sure how he fits on it. It’s got to be a half-ass kind of situation.

I look across the table at them both, and although my hands are wringing together in my lap, I make sure that the movement is hidden from their view.

They’re intimidating when they’re apart, but together? It’s like being stuck in the middle of a pack of ravenous wolves.

Rip sits at ease, back straight, forearms braced on the table, spikes reflecting the light. He scrutinizes me, making my chilled skin crawl.

It takes great effort not to openly squirm, but I force my body to be still, only letting my nerves show themselves in the hidden squeezes of my hands.

“So, you’ve been King Midas’s favored for ten years.”

I glance between him and Osrik. “Yes…” I answer tentatively.

“Do you enjoy it?”

I blink at his question. “Do I enjoy it?” I echo, my confusion showing on the frown that pulls at my lips. What kind of question is that?

He nods once, and I feel my defenses build up around me like a wall being bricked.

“Just so you’re aware, I won’t betray Midas by feeding you information.”

“Yes, Osrik informed me you said as much,” Rip replies, a hint of mirth on his lips. “But I’m not asking about Midas. I’m asking about you.”

My fingers curl against each other, nails digging into the fabric of my gloves. “Why?”

Commander Rip cocks his head. “Has no one ever talked openly with you, Auren?”

I scoff bitterly before I can stop myself. “No.”

Osrik glances at Rip, and heat pinches my cheeks at my uncensored words.

“Not even Midas?” the commander asks.

“I thought we weren’t talking about Midas,” I counter snidely.

Rip tips his head down. “You’re right. We’re getting off-topic.” A hand comes up to run over the black scruff of his jaw. “Was the gilded cage a rumor? Or is that truly where you were kept in Highbell?”

My golden eyes shine with a glare that has nothing to do with the lantern light. “I know what you’re doing.”

The sides of his mouth curl up in a wicked smirk. “Oh, I doubt that.”

His condescending tone has two of my bottom ribbons unwinding from my waist, slipping between my tense hands like they’re trying to hold me back from doing something foolish, like launching across the table and smashing a lantern into his smug face.

“So distrustful,” he says, clicking his tongue. “I’m simply making conversation.” The lie falls easily off his tongue, rolling to a stop at my feet. “After all, I have King Midas’s famous favored in my company. I’m intensely curious about you.”

I nearly roll my eyes. Right.

I feel a change in the air behind me, but when I tense and whip my head around, there’s only a young boy coming from outside. He’s dressed in the same leathers as the rest of the soldiers, except instead of black, his are solid brown.

He hurries inside carrying a tray, a few flakes of snow gathered on his chestnut hair. “Commander,” he says, tipping his head respectfully.

“Thank you, Twig. You can leave it here.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy quickly places the tray down before hurrying out.

I look between them. “Your king forces boys that young to serve in his army?” I ask hotly. Twig looked barely ten years old.

Commander Rip reaches for the items on the tray, seeming unbothered by my tone. “He’s grateful to serve Fourth Kingdom.”

“He’s a child,” I snap.

“Watch your tone, pet,” Osrik growls, but the commander shakes his head.

“It’s alright, Os. She’s probably just hungry.”

My eyes flash with irritation. The last thing I ate was the slop for breakfast. Of course I’m hungry. But I’m not about to admit it, and it’s definitely not the reason why I’m pissed. Children shouldn’t be used.

“I’m not hungry,” I lie.

“No?” Rip replies mockingly. “Shame.”

He reaches for the tray and begins doling out three portions of dinner. I can smell rich, hearty soup, see curls of steam wicking up from each bowl. A large loaf of bread sits off to the side, with three iron cups that I really hope are filled with wine.

I could really use some damn wine.

Together, he and Osrik begin to eat, tin spoons dragging, the sound scraping against my nerves. I watch in agonized silence, and even though I try not to, my eyes follow every dip of his spoon, every bob of Rip’s throat.

Stupid. Why did I have to go and open my stupid mouth? I should’ve only opened it to shove food in.

“So, the cage is true then.”

My gaze snaps up from where I was watching his mouth, a sheen of broth covering his plush lips.

“Makes me wonder what’s in it for you.” Rip speaks conversationally, though his intense attention belies the easygoing tone.

My hunger tangles with my nerves, and knots together with my growing anger. The ribbons in my hand wind around my fingers, squeezing. “You don’t need to wonder anything about me,” I reply hotly.

“I disagree.”

Every time one of them lifts the spoons to their mouths and drinks down more soup, I seethe. When Osrik tips the whole bowl back and gulps it down, my anger snaps. “It kept me safe. That’s what was in it for me.”

Rip angles his head. “Safe from whom?”

“Everyone.”

Silence breeches the wall between us, slipping between the cracks. I don’t understand this game he’s playing. I don’t know the ramifications of my responses.

Rip reaches for the third bowl and begins to slowly push it toward me, iron scraping over rough wood in a loaded path. My mouth waters.

When it stops directly in front of me, my eyes flick up to him.

“Eat, Auren.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is that an order, Commander?”

Instead of rising to the bait of my taunt, he slowly shakes his head and lifts up his soup, dark eyes watching me over the rim of the bowl. “I think you’ve had enough orders, Goldfinch,” he murmurs with a silken tone that makes me fidget in my seat.

His reply causes my eyes to lower with a weight I don’t know how to measure. I don’t know why his answer bothers me so much, but it does.

How is it that this male can strip me down to my thinnest layers, no matter how thick I try to build my walls?

I haven’t forgotten who I’m dealing with. He’s arguably the most cunning strategist in the world, which is probably why I always feel so off-center when I’m around him. He never behaves the way I expect him to.

But I bet that’s calculated too.

To make myself busy, I lift the bowl to my lips and take a long gulp, bypassing the spoon completely. The salty broth hits my tastebuds, the hot liquid a balm to my timidity.

“Did you often dine with Midas?”

I lower the bowl from my lips so I can look across the table at him.

Another question. A seemingly innocent one. One poised about me but having everything to do with my king.

When I don’t reply, Commander Rip drags the loaf of bread in front of him and lifts the knife from the tray. With meticulous precision, he begins to cut three even portions, the scent of rosemary immediately wafting out as the blade scrapes against the crust.

Once all three pieces are cut, he hands one to me. I almost turn it down out of spite, but I’m too hungry to refuse food twice, so I pluck it from his fingers instead.

His black eyes skim over my hands. “Wouldn’t you rather take your gloves off to eat?”

I stiffen. “No. I’m cold.”

Rip watches me—they both watch me—and even though I’m hungry, my stomach begins to churn with unease.Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

He raises the slice to his mouth as I do, both of us taking a bite at the same time. Osrik, on the other hand, shoves the whole piece into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously, crumbs falling on his jerkin that he dusts off absently.

“Are you going to ignore and deflect all of my questions?” Rip asks after swallowing his bite.

Dipping the bread into my last inch of soup, I soak up as much of the broth as I can, mostly so I don’t have to soak in his gaze. “Why do you want to know if I dined with Midas?”

He rests an arm on the table, eyes unreadable. “I have my reasons.”

I finish the remaining bread, though I’m unable to enjoy the taste. “Right. And I’m sure those reasons are to find weaknesses, right? You’re probably trying to determine how important I am to him. What you can get in exchange for me.” I level him with a look. “Let me make this easy on you, Commander Rip. My king loves me.”

“Indeed. Loves you so much he keeps you in a cage,” he says with dark derision.

My temper flares, and I slam the bowl against the table as I set it down. “I wanted to be in there!” I say with a snarl.

Rip leans forward in his seat, as if my anger draws him in, as if it’s his goal—to make me mad, to see me snap. “You want to know what I think?”

“No.”

He ignores me. “I think it’s a lie.”

My glare is so hot, I’m surprised my ears aren’t smoking. “Oh? That’s funny, coming from you.”

Finally, finally, Rip’s impassive demeanor cracks. His black eyes narrow on me.

“Since you seem to want to talk about lies, tell me, Commander, does your right-hand man here know what you are? Does your king know?” I challenge.

Both he and Osrik go utterly still.

I stare at Rip with vindication, celebrating the fact that I’ve turned this around, that I’ve put him on the spot.

His spikes seem to flex—maybe in anger or threat, I don’t know.

Rip’s voice goes low. Coarse. Like jagged rocks along a shore. “If you’d like to talk about that, then by all means,” he says, lifting a hand. “You first, Goldfinch.”

Shit.

My gaze darts to Osrik for a second, but the man is stony. I can’t get a read on the behemoth at all. No surprise there.

In my lap, my ribbons swivel from the adrenaline sweeping through me. There’s no possible way he can see them, and yet, Rip’s eyes fall to the edge of the table before lifting back to my face.

The soup sours in my stomach, acid crawling up the back of my throat.

“Keep a lie for a lie, or tell a truth for a truth. What’s it going to be, Auren?” he asks, voice like dark honey, wicked and tempting.

My breath breaks apart. Like it froze in my chest, a brittle, sharp thing with nowhere to go.

The truth… Such a complicated thing.

The problem with truths is that they’re like spices. Add a little, and it can enrich things, let you experience more layers. But if you pour out too much, it becomes unpalatable.

My truths seem to always ruin the meal.

And yet, I almost want to blurt it out. To say what I haven’t said. To shrug off the weight of my secrets. Just to surprise him—to put him on his back foot and catch him off guard.

It’s tempting, like the way firelight must tempt the moth. The promise of light draws me in, but I know that if I open my mouth, the truth will burn me up.

I clamp my lips shut.

Rip smirks and leans back, a victorious opponent sitting smugly across from me. I hate him, and yet somehow, I hate myself just a little bit more.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say evenly as I get to my feet, all emotion drained out of my voice.

I’m suddenly exhausted and bent. A blade of grass trampled beneath stomping feet.

Osrik moves to get up, the silent observer of the room, but I look at him dismissively. “Don’t worry, I’ll find my own way back to my kennel. That’s what a good pet does, right?” I taunt.

I turn and walk out without waiting for the commander to dismiss me, without even getting his permission. But thankfully, he doesn’t stop me, and Osrik doesn’t follow.

For now, my unpalatable truths are still sitting safely on the back of my tongue, everlasting with their bittersweet bite.