Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

He’s just...lying on the second pallet. A pallet, I notice, which is extra long to accommodate his height.

“Is

this a trick?” I find myself asking, my voice shaky with uneven breath. I’m still clutching the bundle of snow in my hand, my grip so hard that my fingernails are nearly piercing the cloth. I immediately let go and drop it to the floor.

He says nothing as he straightens the furs around him to his liking, and I realize something I should have before.

Why the tent has so many comforts, why it’s set apart from the others, why there are so many furs, even the whole floor lined with them. No one would do that for a damn prisoner’s tent. But they would if the prisoner has to share with the commander.

My breath hitches. “This is your tent.”

He’s lying on his back, telling me that his spikes are still tucked away. “Of course it’s my tent,” he answers.

“Why? Why did you put me in your tent?” I demand, still sitting up, knees bent in front of me as I huddle inside my furs.

Black eyes cut over to me across the space. “You’d prefer sleeping in the snow?”

“Shouldn’t I be with the other prisoners? The other saddles and guards?”

“I’d rather keep an eye on you.”

Wariness floods me. “Why?”

When he doesn’t answer, I narrow my eyes, glaring at his shadowed silhouette. “Are you keeping me in here so that your disgusting men won’t abuse me in the middle of the night without your permission?”

I see him tense. I see it, but I feel it even more. His irritation presses into the air and threatens to bruise.

He slowly sits up on one bent elbow, staring hard at me with an anger I want no part of. “I trust my soldiers implicitly,” he bites out. “They wouldn’t touch you. It’s you I don’t trust. That’s why you sleep here, in my tent. Your loyalty to the Golden King speaks of your character, and I won’t allow my soldiers to bear any brunt of your plots.”

My mouth drops open in shock.

He’s keeping me in here so that I don’t do anything to them? The idea is so ludicrous it’s nearly laughable. Yet the way he degraded my character…

I shouldn’t care, not in the least. But I do. This male, who lies about what he is, who commands a vicious, barbaric army, dares to look down on me? He’s known as Commander Rip, for Divine’s sake. He rips foes’ heads off and leaves them to bleed on the ground while his king leaves rotten corpses of fallen soldiers in his wake.

“I don’t want to be in here with you,” I grit out.

He lies back down, seeming not to care in the slightest. “Captives don’t get to choose where they sleep. Be grateful that you have it as good as you do.”

That sets my hackles rising again as I try to decipher the underlying message. “What’s that supposed to mean? Where are the other saddles? The guards?”

He doesn’t answer me. The bastard just slings an arm over his eyes, like he’s ready to tuck in.

“I asked you a question, Commander.”

“And I chose not to answer,” he replies without moving his arm. “Now be quiet and rest. Unless you need a gag to help suppress the urge to speak?”

My lips press together tightly. He’s awful enough to follow through, so instead of being forced to sleep around a gag all night, I make myself lie back down.

Despite the tincture trying to drag me under, I keep my back against the tent and my eyes on him for over an hour, just in case this is all a trick, just in case he’s waiting to attack when I’m at my most vulnerable during sleep.

But the longer I try to stay awake, the heavier my eyes become.

Every blink stings, like my lids are trying to hold onto each other, scraping against my eyes when I force them open again and again.

Losing the battle, sleep starts to drag me under with the aid of the alcohol and pain suppressant. I finally succumb to the exhaustion that’s been riding me, and I fall asleep, dreaming in the tent of the enemy.

Chapter 8