Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

For the first time since his arrogant ass walked over here, the captain falters. His eyes sweep over my face like he’s assessing an opponent and suddenly doesn’t know if he brought the right weapon.

Then, his hand shifts, and my eyes snap down to the movement, my fingertips tingling. But before his palm even rises an inch, he stops himself, grip moving to the hilt of his sword.

My gaze lifts back up to his face. “That’s what I thought,” I chirp with smug vindication.

His face goes mottled with red-purple rage. “If you were my saddle, I’d have you flogged in the streets.”

“Well, I’m not. And pity to the poor saddles who do service you. I hope you pay them well,” I counter, eyes dragging over his less than appealing form.

For a second, he looks like he’s debating if he can get away with that flogging he mentioned. I imagine it—him trying to punish me, the look on his face when he realizes his mistake as I pinch my bare fingers into his skin.

No one would be able to stop me. Not my guards, not the captain, not even Midas.

I could abandon my plan of waiting and gaining information, of escaping beneath the cover of secrecy. Instead of trying to slip between the knuckles of Midas’s tight grasp, I could let myself fly into this budding tangent that’s blooming in my chest. I could let gold drip from my fingers and solidify every obstacle that crosses my path.

This sudden realization of my true capability bites like the sharpest beak of a bird. I’ve never felt so powerful, or perhaps I’ve never really comprehended what I’m capable of, because I’ve been reined with fears and doubts, led with manipulations.

Punish him, a dark voice murmurs in my ear.

I barely feel it when my hand moves and tugs off my left glove. I don’t feel it when my ribbons begin to slither down the backs of my legs like serpents ready to strike.

There’s a small, strange smile tipping up the corners of my lips, and that’s about all I can feel. That, and the echoing call of darkness screeching through my skull.

My hand lifts, bare finger pointed with purpose, and my blood trills even as my vision tunnels. I don’t have time to stop and think, to consider what the hell I’m doing, because this Divine-damned darkness has taken flight inside of me, and it’s all I know.

“What are you doing?” the captain asks, voice uneven, eyes wary.

I barely hear him over my pounding heart, pulse blaring at my temples. The beat strums in a challenge: Do it. Do it. Do it.

Just one touch. That’s all it would take. My finger gets closer, ribbons tightening, and—

“I see you’re awake, Goldfinch.”

The dark, sensual voice snaps my devouring anger in half, yanking me from my trance-like state.

My sense of self trickles over me slowly, like the first drops of a rainfall. I blink, staring at my hand that’s just inches away from the captain’s frowning face.

“Toying with the wall watch?”

r /> I jerk my head to look over at King Ravinger who’s somehow now standing at my side, though I never sensed his approach. His voice slinks down my back, and my flushed skin erupts with chills.

“What?” My voice sounds dazed, and I quickly drop my hand, while warring emotions spin through me like a torrent.

Ravinger ignores the bowing captain and guards, his green eyes locked on me. Power coils around him like mist clinging to a dawn-lit field, and I lick my suddenly parched lips.

“Something I can help you with?” he asks in a teasing tone.

A blush rises to my cheeks for too many reasons to count. I almost...and then he...

What the hell was I about to do?

The captain seems to let out a sigh of relief at Ravinger’s interruption, and he uses it to get away, clearly unsettled. “Excuse me, Your Majesty. I need to get back to my duties.” He bows again stiffly before shooting a look my way. Then he turns and leaves, walking so fast I’m surprised he’s not running.

Ravinger smirks at his retreating form before he turns back and levels that look on me. Great Divine, that smirk. The rough stubble on his face stretches in tandem with the paper-thin lines of power moving around his jaw, his obsidian hair tousled slightly in the wind. Dressed head to toe in black, his impeccably tailored pants and tunic do nothing to hide the muscles beneath.

He looks good. Way too damn good.

His gaze drops to his boots, and when I follow his line of sight, mortification flushes my skin when I see one of my ribbons curling around his leg.