Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

This was definitely a bad idea.

For a few minutes, the silence between us is a burden. It’s carried on our tense shoulders, groped by stiff hands. But slowly, the weight of it comes off, slipping into something easier, something familiar. For a moment, I can almost pretend we’re back with his army, sharing the quiet of the tent.

I devour two sugared rolls, some honeyed ham, and fruit dipped in cherry-red syrup. I’ve found that the food here is always sweet and sticky, though I don’t really mind right now, since every time I lick my fingers, I feel Rip’s eyes cut over to me.

When we’ve cleared the entire tray, I feel better, no longer like I might topple over any second. With a mug of steamed mead cradled in my palms, I lean back with a sigh just as it begins to snow. The flakes tear off from the clouds, falling like confetti paper ripped off onto a parchment ground.

Soft, slow, comforting.

I look up, letting snow fall onto my lashes, and when I turn to glance at Rip, I find he’s already looking at me.

“So, still angry at me?” he asks with a wry tinge to his tone. I leap at it, relieved to end the silence, to move past the rebuttal on the stairwell.

“Furious.”

Rip tips his head down, as if he expected nothing less.

“You?” I ask him.

“Livid.”

Our mouths twitch in synchronicity, shared smirks tipping up at the corners.

He leans back in his chair, the spikes along his back disappearing beneath his leathers. “We’re quite the pair, you and I.”

At his words, chills scatter over my arms, even though I’m wrapped beneath the blanket. “What do you mean?”

There’s an enigmatic look on his face that I can’t decipher, and he opens his mouth to answer, but appears to reconsider, going silent once more. Flakes of snow land on his black hair, soaking into the inky locks while he considers me with that intensity I’ve grown so accustomed to.

“It’s remarkable, you know.”

“What is?” I ask.

“We might be the last two fae in the entire world, and somehow, our paths crossed that night.”

His words from before, about how my aura was a beacon that he followed, make a lump appear in my throat. “Fate does funny things.”

“It does,” he murmurs, thumb brushing against his bottom lip as he regards me.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He arches a brow. “You know the rules.”

“You know enough of my secrets,” I reply with exasperation. “I want to know how you’re tricking everyone. I saw you outside the stables, with Fake Rip.”

His eyes dance. “You mean when you were checking me out.”

My face immediately grows hot, and my mouth pops open. “I was not checking you out!”

His white teeth gleam in the night. “Little liar.”

I cross my arms. “Well?” I demand, trying my best not to look flustered.

“Well what?” he deflects with a grin.

“Figures,” I grumble. “Alright, then tell me this, why do they really call you Rip?” The question has been plucking at me, an itch I can’t find to scratch.

He crosses his ankles in front of him as he stretches out, and my eyes fall to his strong thighs before lifting back up again. “Now that is an interesting answer.”