Midas is no fool. He knows that my threats would make his life difficult. After all, he needs me. His entire claim to the throne depends on it. The laws of Orea demand that only those with magic can reign, and Midas needs my power to uphold his deceit.
What would people say if he suddenly stopped turning thin
gs gold?
He needs me complacent. What better way to get me back under his control than to tug at my heartstrings?
He was always able to convince me to behave in the past. To do as he said, trust that he knew better, and let him do whatever the hell he wanted while I wasted away behind gilded bars.
But Midas can’t keep me without my compliance, and that’s a truth he never wanted me to see. He never wanted me to wake up and realize just how much power I actually have.
While we steep in silence, the sounds of the water cut off in the washroom, and the maids file out a moment later. They bob into a departing curtsy before letting themselves out of the room. Still, I say nothing.
“Come, I’ll take care of you, and we can talk, just like you wanted to,” he says beseechingly. He plays it so well—the remorse, the heartfelt acknowledgement.
I could fight him. I could spit in his face and tell him I know what he’s trying to do. I could turn and run out of the room and try to get out of the castle. Even though those options sound wildly appealing, I hold myself back.
If I want to be free of him, truly free, I can’t act impulsively. Like Midas, I have to plan. Because he will never let me go. Not ever. So if I’m going to do this, I have to be smart.
“Precious?” he prompts.
I have no allies, no connections. What’s to say that, even if I could get out of Ranhold, someone else wouldn’t capture me and use me for their benefit? No, I’m done being a prisoner. I’m done being owned.
I have to plan and do things right, flee where Midas can’t get to me ever again. I have to become strong so that I can protect myself against the world that would use me.
So...I nod. It’s time for me to play the game.
“Alright.”
Midas’s expression smooths in relief, the lines of worry around his eyes changing into the crinkling of a smile. How satisfied he must be, to think he’s so easily hooked me again.
What a pushover I was.
He leads me into the bathroom, past a silver-framed mirror and the toilet, right over to a large iron tub at the back wall. It has clawed feet and a painted rim, with glass-covered stone carved into the shape of a lion, its mouth gaping in a roar that spews water instead of sound.
“Let’s get the filth of Fourth’s army off you,” Midas says as I stop in front of the tub. It’s already filled with steaming water, a thin layer of bubbles waiting along the surface like drifting lily pads.
“Did King Rot hurt you?” he asks, keeping his tone carefully even.
Yes. But not in the way you think.
“No. He only just walked in before you came.”
Midas seems to be placated by that. “I don’t like that ugly bastard being in the same room as you.”
I blink in surprise. Ugly?
His power is ugly, sure, but the male himself? No. Far from it. Ravinger is achingly beautiful in the same way as when he’s in his Rip form. There’s an ethereal masculinity that doesn’t quite fit in this world. Of course, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at Midas’s evaluation of him. Midas abhors anything less than perfect. He probably looks at Ravinger and sees those strange marks of power that slither just under his skin, and he thinks that makes Ravinger grotesque.
Choosing not to reply, I turn away slightly while Midas busies himself with the tray of food that’s been left on a stool beside the tub. Slowly, I begin to strip out of my clothes. Each piece is overworn, dirty, wrinkled. They feel heavy as I drop them into a heap on the floor.
For a moment, I just stare at them. So much happened in those clothes. I wasn’t the same person before I wore them. It’s like stripping off the armor that I’d worn during battle. The Red Raids, Sail, Captain Fane, Rip, Midas...all of it happened in that dress.
I don’t know if Midas’s eyes are on me, and I don’t care. He’s seen my naked body many times. I’m far more protective of what lies beneath my skin. What’s inside of me—my mind, my heart, my spirit—those are the things I want to keep from his sight.
Taking a breath, I leave behind the pile of clothes and step into the tub. Sitting down, I’m immediately wrapped in warmth that seems to sink all the way into my cold-pressed bones. My ribbons slither to the bottom, their tired lengths soaking up this simple comfort.
I groan as I lean my head back against the curved rim, relishing in the heat. After weeks and weeks of nothing but rag baths in the snow, this is heavenly. I won’t even let Midas’s presence ruin it.