Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

But as I’m dragged closer and closer to the captain’s quarters, it becomes abundantly clear that there will be no such reprieve. I’m not escaping Captain Fane’s abuse.

All because he wants a taste.

Like we’re something to digest, to consume, to devour.

Why am I so cursed to endure the greed of men? Is it simply the gild of my skin? Or is it something more, something deeper, something inside of me that brought me this life?

The answer, I suppose, doesn’t matter. But the question still burns. It burns just as much as the scar on my throat.

I share a look with Rissa. Her blue eyes troubled, her brows lowered down, both of us trying to keep up with the constant spin of our fate.

The captain stops us at his door and fishes out his key, while the two pirates carrying the trunk of coins wait off to the side. As the captain shoves his key into the lock and lets the men in to deposit the trunk, my face lifts to the sky, my eyes searching, seeking.

But just like every time when anything bad has ever happened to me, there are no stars out. No light. No soft, glimmering shine. Just murky clouds over an endless night.

I keep waiting for rescue to come, for a dawn to bloom, for a star to hatch, for a hope to surface.

But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t, and I’m pulled into the room, away from the sky, like a candle’s flame snuffed at its wick.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The captain’s quarters aren’t much to look at.

Although, I’ve probably inherited some unreasonable expectations. Living in a solid gold castle will do that to a girl.

But I take in the room, every inch of it, focusing my eyes with unwavering intent, because I need the distraction—the focus. Any diversion other than the captain locking the door behind us. It sounds louder than my cage ever did.

I keep my gaze forward, fixated on the best part of the room. It’s a large set of windows that spans the back of the ship from ceiling to floor, revealing a sea of shadowed snow beyond. Outside, the sky is lightening ever so slightly. This incessant night finally beginning to ebb away.

To the left is a desk, littered with papers and maps. Barrels and stacked trunks are shoved against walls, each of them closed tight, keeping whatever is inside hidden from view. Some are being used as tables, and stuck on top, the weeping of the candle’s tears has overflowed, hardened wax molded against its pillar in frozen trickles.

To the right, at the space where I don’t want to look, is the bed. It lies in wait, shaded partially by the heavy red drapery covering the corners of the posts. The blankets are rumpled, several of the pillows forgotten on the floor, and I really hope the stain on the sheets is ale.

Rissa and I stand by warily as the captain walks to his desk and removes his hat. He rips the red band from around his neck and tosses that too, before picking up a silver flask and tipping it back into his mouth.

His eyes watch us as he takes sloppy gulps. My body begins to shake, like the needles of a Pitching Pine before they’re ripped from their branches and plunge into the ground like stakes.

“Performance,” Rissa murmurs beside me, so low that I almost don’t hear her. A reminder to play a part. To slip into an act, to keep my real self separate from the horrors and closed off inside me, where he can’t reach. Perform. Just perform so we can get through this.

Her low murmur of encouragement is enough to make me stop shaking. To take a full breath. I’m grateful for it, for the way it grounds me and reminds me that I’m not alone, even though I wish she’d been spared of this.

“Captain, your cabin has quite an...amass of belongings,” Rissa says, bringing out her easy, sultry voice. It’s her attempt to lessen the tension, to set the tone of this encounter. Everything she does, from her voice to her movements, is calculated. Purposeful.

Captain Fane ignores her comment as he tosses off his furs over the desk and sets down his flask. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to play long,” he says, eyeing her body. “Strip and get on the bed.”

I see Rissa’s throat bob, but she doesn’t balk. “Of course, Captain,” she purrs.

Calm, collected, sensual. She’s performing as the embodiment of desire.

> Walking over to the bed, she slowly strips with gracefulness and provocative ease. As the captain watches her, I watch him. I see his carnal hunger spike, see him lick his lips.

Rissa doesn’t belong here, on this stained bed, in a room that reeks of alcohol, with maps stuck to the walls with old wax. She’s all soft skin and beauty and poise, and this place is dingy and harsh, with no admiration for her level of worth.

As soon as her nimble fingers release the last button and her dress falls, she climbs onto the bed and waits expectantly for his next order, her blonde hair lying prettily against her skin as she rests on her ankles.

I’ve seen her naked hundreds of times with Midas of course, so I’m used to it, but for a moment, Captain Fane is entranced.