Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

No. Not tattoos.

As he gets closer, I realize these are under the skin, not on top. Something like veins, though they’re as dark as crow feathers. A quick glimpse down confirms that the smooth, reaching lengths even wrap down his hands like coiled stems embedded into his skin.

I look between him and his commander.

Between the roots and the thorns.

It’s not until the king reaches his guards that I realize I’m still standing. I drop down into the throne, but it’s moot, because the bastard strides up the dais without pause, only stopping once he stands directly in front of me.

My soldiers stiffen, but his are still relaxed, not bothered at all. I, on the other hand, am seething.

Instead of me looking down on him, the opposite is true now.

Green eyes and a sickly-gray pallor bear down on me, and yet somehow, he’s a vision of strength. “King Midas, I’d say it was a pleasure if I wanted to lie, but it seems I can’t be bothered today.”

I stand again so that I don’t have to keep looking up, but the move only makes the prick smirk.

His crown is slightly tilted on his head, like he’s put it on without a care. It’s a ring of tangled branches, thorns like spires at the top. There’s nothing regal or handsome about it. It’s raw and rough and twisted, so much like his tainted power.

My eyes are flat, my tone even more so as I regard him. “You’re late.”

He glances around lazily. “Am I? Pity I kept you waiting.”

The way he says it lets me know he doesn’t think it’s a pity at all.

“Shall we get started?” he asks, as if he has the right to take control and direct this meeting.

Without waiting for me to answer, he turns and strides confidently off the dais, toward the door at the back. All four of his guards follow him, while I blink, stupefied.

Odo appears in front of me, panting, like he ran all the way back here. “It seems King Ravinger has arrived and proceeded to the meeting room, Sire.”

“Obviously,” I snap.

Stalking for the door, I then cross the threshold while my advisors and guards quickly follow after me. One look around the space has my blood ready to boil.

Ravinger sits patiently at the head of the long table, his guards a wall of silent menace behind him.

It takes all of my practiced mannerisms not to snap at the audacity of this man. The tic in my jaw is the only slip-up that reveals my irritation.

Even so, somehow, the bastard sees it. As

he relaxes back into his chair, a smirk curls his lips. It’s a look that says, your move.

My advisors share a glance between them, but I move around to sit at the far end, the other head of the table. Damn it all to the Divines, I don’t care if it does put twenty-four feet between us. I refuse to sit at his side like I’m lesser.

After I take a seat opposite him, my soldiers stand at the wall behind me, backs against the plum-colored wallpaper. The light is dimmer here, only a single window at my left, the panes covered with starburst frost.

As soon as I take my seat, I begin to speak, cutting off his chance to do so first. “It appears we have a problem, King Ravinger.”

He dips his head. “On that, we can agree.”

He’s right—because we aren’t likely to agree on much else.

“You sent rotted corpses to my borders.”

That smirk comes back. “And which borders would those be? You seem to have accumulated more since last I knew.”

I tap my finger on the armrest of my chair to keep myself calm.