Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

“Did you hear me?”

My head snaps to the left at Midas’s voice. “What?”

Brown eyes darken as his gaze skips from me to the commander I was just caught staring at. My stomach drops, and I know I’ve made another grave mistake tonight. All of the calming reassurance I received from Slade is instantly gone, crushed beneath the threat of Midas’s stare.

Midas jerks his chin up, eyes dragging to the harp by the windows. “Go play some music.”

Not a request.

Not even really appropriate, considering the setting and that I haven’t finished eating. He caught me looking at Rip, and he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Your Majesty, don’t feel like you have to add entertainment on our account,” Manu cuts in across the table. “Besides, that harp looks awfully complicated, doesn’t it, Keon?”

The man looks up from the leg meat in front of his mouth. When he doesn’t reply right away, Manu elbows him. “Oh, right. Yes, awfully complicated.”

“My Auren is self-taught,” Midas boasts with another fake smile. “Well?” he prompts.

“Now?” I ask thickly, stalling.

Displeasure bleeds through his features. “Yes, now.”

I’m on thin ice, I know that. I honestly don’t know what’s come over me tonight. Or maybe I do.

It’s nothing.

I’ve mastered it.

He’s already insulted me, embarrassed me, sat me here to be his trophy, and bolstered his own image by pretending that he gilt the table. The last thing I want is to go over there and perform like a puppet.

Still, I’m surprised when I hear myself saying, “No, thank you.”

Someone’s fork screeches against their plate like a startled musician squeaking their violin string. The chattering along the table dims. From my peripheral, I think I see Slade smirk.

I learned long ago to read Midas’s subtleties, and right now, he’s so sharp with anger that I’m in danger of being pierced straight through. His voice drops low, like the threat of rain on a drowned-out sea. “No?”

I attempt to smooth his ruffled feathers by giving him a placating smile. “It’s been so long since I’ve played in front of anyone. I’m out of practice…”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. No, there’s a sort of furious yet gleeful anomaly there that sets me on edge. “Oh, Precious, you play so beautifully. You’ll get the hang of it again and be just as you were before.”

His double meaning is clear.

“I had no idea your gold-touched was so talented,” Queen Kaila says, drawing his attention.

“Yes, she has learned some very good skills to entertain me with over the years,” he says, looking back at me. “Isn’t that right, Precious?”

The innuendo has me burning from my cheeks to my ears.

He’s doing this on purpose. Humiliating me. Putting me in my place. Reminding me and everyone else here that I’m his possession.

“She’s always happy to entertain others as well,” Midas goes on, and for that split second he looks away from me, I allow my gaze to dart to Slade.

He’s sitting back in his chair, one elbow leaning on his armrest, and a goblet balanced in his other hand. He looks relaxed. Bored, even.

Except for the whites of his knuckles where he’s gripping his goblet so fiercely I worry he might shatter it.

Maybe shatter me in the process.

There’s a cough from the back of the room, and my eyes shoot to Fake Rip, whose hands drop back down in front of him.