Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

And then it hits me.

He knows. Of course Scofield and the others would’ve reported to him that Rip carried me to my room. My stomach ties into knots, and worry flares in my head. Did he do something to Digby because of it?

Or...would he prefer to punish me?

I can feel eyes on me, loaded gazes watching us, and it makes my anger flush with a wave of embarrassment. Yet I keep my attention on Midas, on the critical glaze in his eyes.

“I don’t want you getting obnoxious on wine, Precious,” he says with scathing politeness, making heat hit my cheeks at implying in front of everyone that I’m some sort of lush unfit for company.

“Am I allowed to have water, Your Majesty?” My tone is on the bad side of saccharine, too smarmy to be sincere, and I know I’ve gone too far.

Beneath the table, his hand comes down hard on my thigh, and I tense as he pinches the skin hard between his finger and thumb. Even though he’s doing it over my skirt, it still hurts, the fabric barrier doing nothing to block the sharp pain.

Harder and harder, he squeezes, but I school my face. I don’t let myself flinch. I don’t even blink. He can pop off the skin for all I care, and I’ll still sit rooted here like a damned daisy, because I won’t give him the satisfaction of wilting.

The table has grown quiet beneath mine and Midas’s stare down, his attention on me just a few seconds too long, his face just a few degrees too harsh with his supposed favored.

“My father didn’t trade with Thirders, and I can’t imagine why we’d start now with how high your trade tax is,” Prince Niven drawls, his young, nasally voice distracting Midas. “Can Third’s resources truly justify their worth for that kind of fee?”

Everyone looks at the queen now instead of me, her fork pausing on its way to her mouth. Niven sure has his princely pompousness down, but when it comes to tact, he’s severely lacking.

Midas’s hand thankfully drops away from my leg, leaving the spot throbbing in pain. My skin prickles as blood rushes up to it, but I ignore it in favor of the political drama.

Before Midas can smooth things over, the queen looks at the prince with an edge of provocation. “We Thirders don’t need to trade with your ice people, Prince Niven,” she says coolly, tone as sharp as the spires on her glittering crown. “Third Kingdom flourishes, with ten times more resources than your slab of snow. King Midas invited us here to strengthen our alliance, and we are here because it could be beneficial to our people. But make no mistake, you need us more than we need you.”

Prince Niven blushes furiously in a patchwork of raggedy reds across his cheeks and neck, but Midas intervenes before the boy can shove his foot in his mouth again. “Sixth and Fifth Kingdoms are grateful for your presence, Queen Kaila. Any new trade agreements we can come to will surely benefit all those involved.”

She gives a terse nod, while her brother Manu, no longer looking so jovial, leans in and whispers something into her ear.

When Manu settles back, the queen takes a drink, seeming to gather herself and dissipate the tension in her face. “I forget how young you are, Prince Niven, and still mourning your father. You are indeed lucky that King Midas has come to aid you in this time of transition for rule.”

In other words, you’re an idiot, kid.

Niven sits up in his chair, as if to make himself look taller, older, though his baby face and the cowlick at the back of mussy brown hair kind of kills it. “My thirteenth year is only two months away.”

Kaila smirks. “Ah, thirteen,” she says reflectively. “That’s when my powers manifested. You remember, Manu?” she asks, turning toward her brother.

“How could I not?” he replies, letting the smile hang on his mouth in a clear play of realigning the conversation. “You used to make me mute so I couldn’t tell on you to Mother and Father.”

Her lips twist. “You deserved it.”

“Probably,” he concedes.

The prince frowns. “I thought you had the power to pull voices toward you? To hear every whisper in the room?”

Well, shit. I need to remember never to speak secrets anywhere near her.

Midas cuts him a sharp look, but the prince is so oblivious he only shoves a spoonful of stew into his mouth.

“My magic can do many things,” Kaila says cryptically. “Some people who annoy me enough with the abuse of their voice lose the privilege of having it.”

My gaze cuts over to a red-faced Niven. Beside me, Midas’s foot taps on the floor six times in tense aggravation.

Niven nods. “My power will develop soon, and it will benefit Fifth Kingdom. My advisors estimate that I’ll have stronger magic than even my father. Perhaps even more than anyone in this room.”

I nearly snort aloud. If the prince notices the steam coming from Midas’s and Kaila’s ears, he pretends not to notice as he keeps going, obviously trying to win Most Pretentious Little Prick Prince prize in all of Orea. He’s a shoe-in.

“Now, King Ravinger...there’s power,” Niven goes on, looking up and down the table to see who agrees with him. Nobody meets his eye. “Too much, if you ask me. His rotting magic leeched into Fifth’s lands when he got here. You probably saw it on your way in. That, and his loitering army,” he says before slurping another sip of stew. “We were forced to give over a piece of land or face his army’s attack.”