Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

I skirt the table, choosing the spot farthest from his. He smirks as I pull out the stool, as if he knew I would choose to sit here. I glare at him. His smirk widens.

Osrik gathers the papers laid out on the table, and I silently kick myself for not taking the time to try and study them while I had the chance. I see a hint of a map and some written missives before Osrik removes them, letting them roll up to prop against a wall of the tent.

With the tabletop now clear except for a couple of lanterns, I glance around nervously. For some reason, the emptiness of the space makes the commander’s attention more daunting.

There’s nothing else for me to focus on, nothing else to distract me. Maybe he planned it that way.

Osrik pulls out the stool beside the commander and sits down, though I’m not sure how he fits on it. It’s got to be a half-ass kind of situation.

I look across the table at them both, and although my hands are wringing together in my lap, I make sure that the movement is hidden from their view.

They’re intimidating when they’re apart, but together? It’s like being stuck in the middle of a pack of ravenous wolves.

Rip sits at ease, back straight, forearms braced on the table, spikes reflecting the light. He scrutinizes me, making my chilled skin crawl.

It takes great effort not to openly squirm, but I force my body to be still, only letting my nerves show themselves in the hidden squeezes of my hands.

“So, you’ve been King Midas’s favored for ten years.”

I glance between him and Osrik. “Yes…” I answer tentatively.

“Do you enjoy it?”

I blink at his question. “Do I enjoy it?” I echo, my confusion showing on the frown that pulls at my lips. What kind of question is that?

He nods once, and I feel my defenses build up around me like a wall being bricked.

“Just so you’re aware, I won’t betray Midas by feeding you information.”

“Yes, Osrik informed me you said as much,” Rip replies, a hint of mirth on his lips. “But I’m not asking about Midas. I’m asking about you.”

My fingers curl against each other, nails digging into the fabric of my gloves. “Why?”

Commander Rip cocks his head. “Has no one ever talked openly with you, Auren?”

I scoff bitterly before I can stop myself. “No.”

Osrik glances at Rip, and heat pinches my cheeks at my uncensored words.

“Not even Midas?” the commander asks.

“I thought we weren’t talking about Midas,” I counter snidely.

Rip tips his head down. “You’re right. We’re getting off-topic.” A hand comes up to run over the black scruff of his jaw. “Was the gilded cage a rumor? Or is that truly where you were kept in Highbell?”

My golden eyes shine with a glare that has nothing to do with the lantern light. “I know what you’re doing.”

The sides of his mouth curl up in a wicked smirk. “Oh, I doubt that.”

His condescending tone has two of my bottom ribbons unwinding from my waist, slipping between my tense hands like they’re trying to hold me back from doing something foolish, like launching across the table and smashing a lantern into his smug face.

“So distrustful,” he says, clicking his tongue. “I’m simply making conversation.” The lie falls easily off his tongue, rolling to a stop at my feet. “After all, I have King Midas’s famous favored in my company. I’m intensely curious about you.”

I nearly roll my eyes. Right.

I feel a change in the air behind me, but when I tense and whip my head around, there’s only a young boy coming from outside. He’s dressed in the same leathers as the rest of the soldiers, except instead of black, his are solid brown.

He hurries inside carrying a tray, a few flakes of snow gathered on his chestnut hair. “Commander,” he says, tipping his head respectfully.