Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

This time when Midas’s hand comes up, his fingers pinch right on the sensitive underside of my arm. Even through the sleeve, it hurts. I stiffen and suck in a breath, tears springing up from the sharp notch of pain as he digs in.

With the way his hand is wrapped around my bicep, I’m sure to the rest of the table that it simply looks as if he’s bestowing me with an affectionate touch instead of this move of punishing dominance.

Some of them keep up polite conversation, but they’re really paying attention to us. After all, it’s not every day one gets to observe the Golden King with his elusive gold-touched favored.

As if that scrutiny weren’t bad enough, I can feel Slade’s eyes burning into the side of my face. I don’t know how I know he’s watching, or how I can feel his attention stitched to the place Midas is touching me, but I do.

“Don’t be shy now, Precious.”

One of my ribbons lifts, a beveled end perking up like a snake scenting the air. Every second that passes makes the pinched spot even more painful, feeling like a pin bolted straight through my skin.

Midas smiles at the look in my eye before blessedly releasing me. Though he finally lets go, it doesn’t remove the hurt, and isn’t that fitting? Every part he’s touched has bloomed with a blatant spot I’m left to ache with. Every touch radiates out with a mark from the spot he savaged.

“My leg and arm are a little sore,” I reply quietly, dropping a pointed look to my thigh that’s no doubt already forming a bruise as well.

“I forget how delicate you are,” Midas says, the pleasantness in his voice nothing but a farce to the edge in his eye. “Since your leg is so sore, perhaps the commander can carry you to the harp. He seems to have some practice at that.”

Shit. My heart stammers, a clumsy, knocking pulse to rap against my ribs. How much does he know?

Damn the guards for reporting my every move. Now that I think about it, the only reason I didn’t get Midas storming into my bedroom was probably because Queen Kaila arrived last night.

He was preoccupied.

He isn’t preoccupied anymore.

Now, I’m going to pay for letting someone else touch me. No matter that it was his own damn fault I couldn’t walk up the stairs in the first place.

He lets his kingly voice boast out, “Commander, come help Auren to the harp.”

I have to hand it to him. The asshole really has some nerve, ordering Rip around like that, considering the commander’s reputation and the fact that Midas isn’t even his king.

All of Midas’s attention is pinned to Fake Rip, but the man is still standing stoic against the wall, powerful thighs shoulder-length apart. He cocks his head, not in Midas’s direction, but in Slade’s, and my embarrassment comes to a head.

“That’s not necessary,” I quickly state.

“Oh, but it is. I insist.” Midas’s tone is sharp enough to cut.

My teeth grit and grind. Desperate now, I look around the table, but everyone’s pointedly pretending not to be paying attention to this exchange. Even Manu and Keon are in deep discussion with their queen.

“I don’t need to inconvenience the commander.” I scoot my chair back too fast, the legs wailing out a shrill screech against the stone.

Before I can stand fully, Midas’s hand is on my wrist, halting me. “If it wasn’t an inconvenience last night, then it certainly shouldn’t be now.” The cold challenge is a blatant flex of control shoveled out from his words before he levels a look at Slade. “You don’t mind, do you, Ravinger? Your commander took such good care of my Auren last night, so I know he can do so again.”

My Auren.

Half of me is surprised at how blatant his play of control and possession is tonight. Yet it makes sense to me too, since I know he learned about last night. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s anyone touching me.

Slade regards him, head cocked, expression apathetic. Even when his eyes drop to skim over the spot where Midas is holding me, there’s nothing. Not a flicker of any kind of emotion.

I think that’s what bothers me most of all.

At least until Slade says, “By all means, Midas. Whatever you need.”

Something in me deflates at that, my ribbon settling down to lick invisible wounds. Was I imagining the bite of anger I saw earlier with his grip on his goblet?

Slade’s every action is always unexpected. But it isn’t until I feel this pebble of disappointment dig in that I realize I thought he was going to intervene on my behalf.

But he doesn’t.