Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

Fake Rip is already stalking toward me, the black sheen of the spikes looking scarier on him than they do on Slade. All too soon, he’s right in front of me, taking my arm into the crook of his stiff elbow.

I turn and start the humiliating walk over to the harp, wishing I’d never opened my big mouth. I should’ve known that Midas would find it necessary to immediately put me in my place.

We’ve only taken a few steps when Midas calls out, “My favored can’t possibly walk on her own, Commander.”

Heels stuck to the stone, this stranger and I stay frozen for a moment. Then, nearly too quietly to hear, a sigh sounds within the hollow spaces of his helmet.

My shoulders tighten. “Don’t you da—”

Before I’ve finished my sentence, I’m picked up in Fake Rip’s arms.

Not bridal style. Not even flung over his shoulder like a brute.

No, he carries me like a sack of potatoes, hauling me up by my waist with one arm, balancing me against his side.

I’m too stunned to offer an objection as he stomps the rest of the way to the harp, every step jostling me like I’m an errant toddler on a mother’s hip.

I get dropped unceremoniously onto the stool in front of the instrument, and I hiss in protest, shooting a glare up at the man, while my ribbons practically turn to poke silken tongues out at him. I’m not positive, but I think I might see him wink at me through the slits in his helmet before he turns and strides back to his spot.

What the hell?

The dining room is achingly quiet for a second until Manu demands, “Why don’t you carry me around like that?”

“Because you weigh about a hundred pounds more than me,” Keon drawls.

“That’s a terrible excuse.”

Thankful that Manu and his husband have filled the awkward gap of quiet, I straighten my back and lift my chin before I let my fingers pluck against the strings.

I don’t play any particular song. There’s no need. Midas doesn’t actually want me to entertain anyone with a tune, that’s never what this has been about in all my years of playing. It’s a performance, but not one that has anything to do with music.

For the next hour, while the rest of them eat and drink and talk, my gilded fingers strum over the strings. It’s an indolent, vagabond melody with no focus that plunks through the flicks of my fingertips.

Not once does Midas say anything to me again. Not once does Slade, or any of his Wrath, glance my way. Manu eyes me every once in a while, but I don’t know him well enough to judge the expression on his face.

Behave tonight

Sit pretty

Play your silly music

Leave the men to speak

Those old words sing along in soundless lyrics. Same shit, different castle.

Chapter 20

AUREN

My fingertips feel raw.

It’s been months since I played the harp, and it shows. After hours of sitting at that stool, plucking discordant strings with bare hands while my gloves stayed in my lap, my fingers are now tender and offended, puffed up with indignation.

The thing is, I like music. I like that I can control the thrum of every note, steer every melody. Perhaps I like it in the way a bird likes to sing. But being ordered to play, like a pet performing for background noise, makes me resent the act altogether. I want to sit at the harp because I want to. Not because I’ve been mastered.

In a way, it’s good, what happened tonight. Midas’s asshole tendencies rearing its ugly head, the public embarrassment, even Slade’s reaction. It’s good, because it reminds me to stay on track. Reminds me why I need to find Digby and get the hell out of here and to not put my faith in males.

Prove it, I told him.