Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

As if on cue, Slade strides into the room right then, dark voice whipping out without pause. “I think you got the better end of the deal, don’t you?”

Chapter 19

AUREN

Every single person at the table stiffens at Slade’s sudden appearance. But me...my body seems to relax for the first time since I came in here. My ribbons loosen, their lengths slipping out of their drapery, ends slinking beneath the table like they want to slither right over to him.

I get a bit of tunnel vision as my attention locks onto him, and my lips go warm, once again remembering the press of his mouth and the nip of his teeth.

Great Divine, that kiss.

His green eyes sweep the room, onyx hair perfectly disheveled and body encased head-to-toe in black tailored clothes with a simple brown leather strap around his waist. His gaze doesn’t land on me exactly,

but I swear I see the slightest twitch of his lips curve up.

Slade walks into the room with all of the swagger befitting his uncompromising confidence. Behind him is his Wrath, each of them in full armor, including helmets. The only reason I can tell it’s them is because Osrik’s hulking form can’t be missed, and neither can Lu’s featherlight tread. Judd walks just behind her with a relaxed swing of his arms, while the fourth in the group...

My eyes flick back and forth from Slade to the Rip look-alike. Slade swaggers, but Fake Rip stalks. With booted steps striding forward, curved spikes protruding from the arms and back of his armor, he looks every bit the army commander I’ve come to know.

Except for one thing. No aura pulses around him. No inky presence of his essence hovers in the air. This person is definitely an impersonation. The question is...who the hell is he?

“King Ravinger,” Midas declares, watching as the four Wrath take up spots against the wall of the dining room, Ranhold’s guards shuffling out of the way to accommodate them. “When you didn’t arrive at the stated dining time, I assumed you had other obligations.”

A verbal jab, letting it be known that Midas doesn’t appreciate Slade’s tardiness.

“Pardon,” Slade replies as he sits down across from the prince and begins helping himself to the platters of food. “I didn’t intend to leech off of Fifth Kingdom’s dining niceties, but time got away from me.”

Niven goes as pale as his chowder, but for once, the prince has the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

The passing minutes are so thick with tension that it would take a knife sharper than the one at my place setting to cut through it. Everyone eats and talks while I push around my food and bob my head politely whenever someone says something, while my internal clock ticks.

The monarchs are all sliding looks at each other when one isn’t looking, their words nothing more than riddles fluent in derision or rife with fake flattery. The only one as quiet as me is Slade.

My eyes lift of their own volition to steal a look at his profile. I glance over the cut of his jaw, the reaching power barely visible behind the high collar of his shirt. Like he feels my attention, deep green eyes flash over to me, and I snatch my gaze away, trying to keep still as I stir my food around.

I shouldn’t look at him. Not with the way my heart is pounding, not with the observant eyes at this table.

And yet, the moment I look away, I swear I feel a brush of his gaze against my cheek again, as if he feels the pull too, the crave to collide. Instead of falling into that trap, I let my eyes rove over his Wrath.

Osrik stands like part-giant against the wall, more pillar than man, like he could hold up the entire ceiling if it came down. To be honest, he probably could.

Judd is next to him, head scanning left and right, while Lu stands perfectly still, hand resting on the sword at her hip, perhaps to remind people that she might be the smallest of the four, but she’s just as deadly.

If any of them notice me sitting here, they don’t let on.

As for the Rip look-alike...

My eyes fall to him the most.

I can’t help it. I keep trying to pick his appearance apart, as if I can spot all the differences. Yet apart from the empty space where his aura should be pulsing, there’s nothing I can see that gives me any hint as to who he really is.

“King Midas, I don’t think I complimented you on the throne room yet. It was positively stunning,” Queen Kaila gushes.

“A gift to Prince Niven,” Midas says smoothly, as if he did it for anyone other than himself.

“It was very generous,” the boy murmurs in monotone.

Queen Kaila’s lips pull up in a smile. “You know, I have always been captivated by your power, King Midas.”