Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

How is it that this male can strip me down to my thinnest layers, no matter how thick I try to build my walls?

I haven’t forgotten who I’m dealing with. He’s arguably the most cunning strategist in the world, which is probably why I always feel so off-center when I’m around him. He never behaves the way I expect him to.

But I bet that’s calculated too.

To make myself busy, I lift the bowl to my lips and take a long gulp, bypassing the spoon completely. The salty broth hits my tastebuds, the hot liquid a balm to my timidity.

“Did you often dine with Midas?”

I lower the bowl from my lips so I can look across the table at him.

Another question. A seemingly innocent one. One poised about me but having everything to do with my king.

When I don’t reply, Commander Rip drags the loaf of bread in front of him and lifts the knife from the tray. With meticulous precision, he begins to cut three even portions, the scent of rosemary immediately wafting out as the blade scrapes against the crust.

Once all three pieces are cut, he hands one to me. I almost turn it down out of spite, but I’m too hungry to refuse food twice, so I pluck it from his fingers instead.

His black eyes skim over my hands. “Wouldn’t you rather take your gloves off to eat?”

I stiffen. “No. I’m cold.”

Rip watches me—they both watch me—and even though I’m hungry, my stomach begins to churn with unease.

He raises the slice to his mouth as I do, both of us taking a bite at the same time. Osrik, on the other hand, shoves the whole piece into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously, crumbs falling on his jerkin that he dusts off absently.

“Are you going to ignore and deflect all of my questions?” Rip asks after swallowing his bite.

Dipping the bread into my last inch of soup, I soak up as much of the broth as I can, mostly so I don’t have to soak in his gaze. “Why do you want to know if I dined with Midas?”

He rests an arm on the table, eyes unreadable. “I have my reasons.”

I finish the remaining bread, though I’m unable to enjoy the taste. “Right. And I’m sure those reasons are to find weaknesses, right? You’re probably trying to determine how important I am to him. What you can get in exchange for me.” I level him with a look. “Let me make this easy on you, Commander Rip. My king loves me.”

“Indeed. Loves you so much he keeps you in a cage,” he says with dark derision.

My temper flares, and I slam the bowl against the table as I set it down. “I wanted to be in there!” I say with a snarl.

Rip leans forward in his seat, as if my anger draws him in, as if it’s his goal—to make me mad, to see me snap. “You want to know what I think?”

“No.”

He ignores me. “I think it’s a lie.”

My glare is so hot, I’m surprised my ears aren’t smoking. “Oh? That’s funny, coming from you.”

Finally, finally, Rip’s impassive demeanor cracks. His black eyes narrow on me.

“Since you seem to want to talk about lies, tell me, Commander, does your right-hand man here know what you are? Does your king know?” I challenge.

Both he and Osrik go utterly still.

I stare at Rip with vindication, celebrating the fact that I’ve turned this around, that I’ve put him on the spot.

His spikes seem to flex—maybe in anger or threat, I don’t know.

Rip’s voice goes low. Coarse. Like jagged rocks along a shore. “If you’d like to talk about that, then by all means,” he says, lifting a hand. “You first, Goldfinch.”

Shit.