Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

I shrug self-consciously. “You could’ve taken anyone else at that village after you got rid of the raiders. There were plenty of others scared and crying,” I say, my eyes dropping down to the top of his gold tunic where the laces have come undone, showing his tanned skin beneath. “Why me? Why did you come into that alleyway and decide to take me with you?”

Midas reaches over and pulls me onto his lap. My stomach leaps at the contact, an automatic reaction caught between having fear of a person’s touch and surprise at liking it. As soon as the initial tension is gone, I settle against him, my head resting on his chest.

“It was always going to be you,” he says quietly. “As soon as I saw your face, I was already lost to you, Auren.” He picks up my hand and places it over his chest. I feel the beat of his life thrum against my fingers, like it’s singing a song just for me. “Hear that? You have my heart, Precious. Always.”

A smile stretches my lips, and I bury my face into his neck, nuzzle against the staccato of his pulse. I feel so light and happy that I’m surprised I don’t float into the air and sparkle with the stars.

He places a kiss on my hair. “Let’s get to bed,” he murmurs before tapping me on the nose. “We can’t oversleep.”

I nod against him, but instead of putting me down, he carries me to the tent, ducking inside. He lays me down on our blanket roll gently, and I fall asleep in his arms, snuggled up against him.

I’m not sure what exactly wakes me up.

Maybe it was a sound. Maybe it was intuition.

I sit up in the dark, noting that there’s no more orange glow floating through our tent, which means the fire has gone out, probably hours ago.

Beside me, Midas is sleeping, soft snores coming from his parted mouth. I smile because those cooed rumbles make him so endearing for some reason, like a secret only I know about him, an innocent vulnerability.

I look around wi

th my head tilted, listening to the quiet night, wondering what could have pulled me out of such a deep sleep.

But I hear nothing. Dawn is probably not too far away though, so I decide to slip quietly out of the tent and go wash up a bit before it’s time to leave.

Outside, I pass the charred and ashen pit of our old fire, and I stretch my arms over my head, looking around at the moonlit surroundings. All is still, nothing out of place, the soft chirping of crickets sounding off near the pond.

I head that way, wanting to take advantage of the empty water while I can. My bare feet sink into the plush grass with every step as I pick my way toward the water. The open plain is dusted with a few trees here and there, and I can see the shadows of the nomads’ tents in the distance, their camp quiet enough that I can tell everyone is still sleeping.

When I get to the pond, I start to undress, toe dipping into the water to get a feel. It’s cold, but not too bad. I’ll just take a quick dip to wash before the sun dawns.

I start to loosen the gold ties at my collar when a hand suddenly slams over my mouth.

Startled, a yelp flies out of me, uselessly caught in the palm of someone’s hand. The person’s other arm comes around me, bending around my throat, making me choke.

“Get her clothes,” the man’s voice barks out against my ear.

My eyes are as wide as saucers as my tunic is tugged, the material pinching my skin painfully.

In my panic, my frenzied senses tell me that there are three of them—two women and the man holding me from behind.

No, not two women, I realize. One of them is just a girl, about my age. I recognize her. This family belongs to the traveling nomads.

I struggle, trying to kick, but the man holds me tighter, making it hard to breathe. “Hold still and this will go better for you,” he says low in my ear.

The woman trying to tear off my shirt looks over her shoulder. “Pass me the knife,” she hisses at her daughter.

The girl is apparently the lookout, but she rushes forward, a glint of metal shining as she passes a pocketknife to her mother. I try to look at her, pleading with my eyes, but she doesn’t even look at me.

I try to buck the man away and tear his arm away from my neck. I attempt to scream past the man’s fingers, teeth gnashing, trying to bite, but he just shoves his fingers in my mouth and presses on my tongue, making me gag.

In the next moment, I hear a slicing sound, and then a bite of pain slashes across my stomach. I scream as the shirt is cut from my body, my long skirt and leggings following directly after.

“Quick! Give me the knife!” the man hisses.

I’m going to die. He’s about to slit my throat, and all I can think is—Midas was right.

You can’t trust people.