Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

“No matter. It marks for a titillating evening, doesn’t it?”

Bread is pushed past my lips next. Cheese. Grapes. I chew mindlessly, staying silent, my eyes watchful, my ribbons tight.

With an outstretched index finger, he does a double tap against his goblet, his power flaring as he duplicates the cup and hands one to me. With a snap of his finger, a servant hurries over, filing them both with wine.

“A toast to our night,” he says before tipping it against his lips and gulping down the contents.

I take a bitter sip.

When Fulke is bored of feeding me, he takes both goblets and places them on the table, shooing away any more trays of food. I’m glad that’s over at least. The food sits in my stomach, as heavy as stones, my tongue belligerent for the taste of his fingers still lingering on it.

Of course, I don’t get let off that easy though, because Fulke lifts a finger to point to his plump cheek. “Kiss me.”

My eyes narrow, skin tightening, fingers curling in the skirts of my dress. When I don’t move, Fulke’s eyes flash. His hand comes up to pinch my ear, pulling me forward until my mouth lands against his scratchy cheek. Scratchy, not smooth like Midas. A rounded jaw and pudgy cheek, smelling of wine but reeking of arousal.

My lips don’t pucker, because I refuse to kiss him. My mouth presses against his skin as he holds me there, my ear squeezed between his finger and thumb.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he laughs.

The moment he releases my ear, I lurch away, nearly tipping myself over the side of the throne, but Fulke grabs hold of my arms to catch me, holding me steady as his laugh deepens. “No need to fall down to your knees for me yet.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, with anger. I want to get away. I want to be back upstairs, safe in my cage with only the Gale Widow’s cries for company.

Fulke doesn’t release me right away, and his hands that are still gripping my arms squeeze tighter, enough for me to wonder if I’ll be bruised later in dots of bronze. “I don’t think you’re close enough yet.”

He pulls me onto his lap without warning. A feat, considering my body is so rigid. It’s a wonder he’s able to get me to move at all. I land awkwardly, stiffly, the back of my legs hitting his thighs and my spine snapping upright so that I don’t lean against his chest. I try to grab the armrests to pull myself up, but Fulke snatches one of my wrists and places my palm over his crotch.

“Here, golden pet.”

My eyes flare wide. My stomach churns. I feel his flaccid length begin to grow and harden. And as much as I want to snatch my hand away, I can’t, because he’s holding my wrist there with surprising strength.

I live in a cage, but I’ve never felt so trapped.

“Your Majesty.”

Fulke’s eyes travel past me to where Rissa has come up in front of him. “Shall I dance for you?” she asks with a sultry smile, her blonde hair in long waves against her front, somewhat hiding her naked breasts.

King Fulke eyes her greedily and tilts his head, giving her the go-ahead. She starts to dance, her black skirts swishing against the polished floor and arcing against her ankles, her hips moving to the pulse of the music, her eyes a lure of enticement matched by the curve of her lips.

Fulke finally releases my wrist to lean back, and I’m able to snatch my hand away as he gives his attention to Rissa’s performance. “Watch her,” he tells me, his mouth entirely too close to my ear for my liking. “This is a saddle who knows what she’s doing. You’d do well to learn from her on how to please a man.”

How to please a man. As if that should be a woman’s—saddle or otherwise—sole purpose for living. The edge of my lip curls with the hint of a sneer.

Rissa’s smile widens at his commendation, her eyes casting over me as if to gauge whether or not I’m jealous, but of course I’m not. I’m relieved. Whether she intended to or not, she gave me a much-needed reprieve from his attention. Like I tried to give her in the library.

No one else can probably see the slight swelling of her nose or the layer of makeup beneath her eye that’s more than likely covering a bruise, but I do, and the sight makes me inwardly cringe. I really didn’t mean to hurt her.

“Mmm, she is a rather good dancer, wouldn’t you say, pet?”

I nod obediently. He clearly has a thing for making her dance for him. Rissa, ever the professional, continues to sway seductively.

She’s beautiful. High apple cheekbones; large, round eyes; blonde hair nearly down to her waist; curves; and full pink lips. It’s no wonder why Fulke likes her so much. And it’s not just her beauty, either—all of Midas’s saddles are beautiful—but it’s her confidence, the way she can read a man and know how to seduce him. She can transform, from her walk to her words, into becoming what someone wants.

Fulke rests a hand on my hips, thick fingers digging above the bone, pressing into flesh with a clear indication of possession. Until he gets bored with this as well, and instead moves me to sit on the floor in front of his legs. I think he likes the visualization of Midas’s most prized favored sitting at his feet.

My legs are tucked beneath me, the only position I can be in to keep myself covered. Some of the nobles attending the party grow bolder, no doubt bolstered by the wine. They come closer to the dais, murmuring and staring at me, and I stare right back. I don’t lower my head. I don’t turn my gaze away.

Let them talk.