Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

He earned my trust. My love. My loyalty. I wouldn’t be here, in this gilded cage, if he hadn’t.

“Please,” he pleads, surprising me. Midas never pleads. Not since he put a crown on his own head.

I hesitate for a moment, but the past is a powerful thing, so my hand finally lifts, slips inside his grasp, and squeezes. That smile lights up his face as I let him pull me up, let him guide me into the bathroom, and something in me warms slightly. My body stops shaking.

Inside, a golden tub is filled, tendrils of steam curling over the lip, oil poured into the water, making it smell of winterberries.

He stops us in the middle of the room, the hanging sconces already lit, casting everything in its comforting glow. The hanging mirror above the washbasin shows the two of us, shows Midas step up behind me.

I feel his fingers skim up my spine before delving into my ribbons—each silken strand still bound around me.

Carefully, he unwraps me, layer by layer.

My ribbons don’t do anything to help him—but they don’t stop him either, don’t rip from his grasp.

He works slowly, taking his time with each pass, until the last of my long ribbons are let out, draping from my spine to the floor behind me. All the while, I watch him in the mirror, my heart beating quicker than usual.

He helps me out of the saddle gown next, his fingers never once straying, never crossing any sort of line except to simply help me undress.

When the fabric falls at my feet, Midas looks at my eyes in the reflection of the mirror for a moment, before taking my hand once more and leading me into the tub. One leg over, then the next, and I sit down, the hot water shoulder-deep, a few scattered bubbles mingling with the oil that seeps into my skin.

I sigh.

Midas sits on a stool beside the tub with a cloth in his hand, dipping it in the water before his eyes come back up to look at me.

“May I?”

I don’t answer or nod, but I tip my chin up slightly, and that’s invitation enough. He reaches forward and gently begins to dab at the wound, the sting making me flinch.

“I’m sorry.”

His words are gentle but steady—same as the swipes against my throat.

“For what part?” I ask, my voice croaky from disuse or emotion. Maybe both.

The cloth is dipped again and again, new warm water to wash away the dried blood, to clean the cut.

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

My brows rise at his admission, even as indignant anger rises up, shouldering past the numbness I’ve felt for the last few hours.

“The slice against my throat is the least of them,” I reply, and I mean it.

I pull away from his ministrations and lie all the way back, dipping my head and hair beneath the water. With eyes closed, I let it envelop me, let it press into my skin, let the warmth soothe my body like I wish it could soothe my aching heart.

When I sit back up, I take a gulping breath and rest my head against the back of the tub, my eyes landing on Midas. I don’t cover up the hurt and anger there, don’t mask it from him.

Midas nods, like he accepts what I’m silently telling him.

“I know,” he says again, just like he did in the bedroom. “I know what you’re thinking.”

What I’m thinking isn’t nearly as bad as what I’m feeling, but I don’t say that.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it,” I tell him, my tone accusatory. “And as nervous as I was, as gutted, some part of me thought that you’d have a plan. That you wouldn’t go through with it.”

My breaths come quicker, the water line rising and lowering over my chest. My ribbons swim in the water, pulling tighter around me once more, like they’re trying to keep me from cracking to pieces.

“I trusted you, Midas. I trust us. After all these years, after all I’ve done—”