Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

I get yanked off my troubled trail of thoughts, gaze springing back up to see Mist studying my fading bruise. It’s just getting all sorts of unwanted attention tonight. I consider lying for a moment or brushing her off, but...a part of me wants to warn her. To get through to her.

Because I’m not her enemy, despite the hurt that’s telling her I am. I’m not competition. I’m simply the woman who was on the other side of the bars.

My fingers press gently against my cheek. “This is what happens when King Midas loses his temper.”

Something skims across her almond-shaped eyes, but it’s gone in a flash, and then she sniffs and lifts her chin. “You shouldn’t displease him. He gives you so much.”

A laugh ruptures out of the clefts of my cynicism.

“What’s funny?” she snaps.

The bitter amusement slips off my face, and I feel my head shake, as if trying to displace the sadness that wants to settle in. “Nothing,” I tell her. “He has given me a lot, it’s true.”

But he’s taken so much more.

“Of course he has.” The bristling of her shoulders has raised them a notch, but she smooths them out as she plasters on a fake smile. “Now me, I’m grateful for everything he’s done. The moment he found out I was carrying his child, he removed me from the saddle wing and put me in here.” She looks around the room like it’s the best thing she’s ever seen—as if she can’t see the invisible bars.

I hesitate. “Has he spoken with you about what will happen after the baby is born?”

It’s the wrong thing to ask, because Mist’s face goes from syrupy to fuming. “That’s none of your damn business.”

My lips press together, wishing I could snip those words off and shove them back in my mouth.

“This room is very nice,” Rissa intervenes after taking another dainty sip of tea. “You must be very comfortable here.”

Mist glares at me for a moment longer before turning her attention on the blonde. She runs a hand down the armrest like she’s alleviating her own inner ruffling. “Yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? The king is very thoughtful. It’s nice being so well cared for.”

Watching her is like watching an old version of myself. She’s dazzled by him, by all the pretty things, by all the security that his promises come with. How could she not be? When that man turns his smiles and nice words onto you, it’s hard not to fall under his spell. Mist and I are more alike than she’d ever want to believe.

“I’m giving him something that no one else has.” Honest pride shines through her expression as her hand settles over her bump once more. “He makes sure I have everything I request. Food, clothes, mender visits... He’s already so devoted to me, surrounds me with every comfort.”

Instead of her and this pretty purple room, I’m seeing my bedroom at the highest level of Highbell, and all the pretty things he gave to me. I’m seeing my walls slowly closing in with gilded bars, an invisible chain clamped around my ankles.

I clear my throat, trying to sort through the pity that’s risen inside of it, but the lump won’t go down.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Mist asks, taking in my expression.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Her grip on the needles tightens, and the mood in the room tightens with it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not a threat to you,” I say, but I can see she doesn’t believe me, and honestly, why would she?

“Of course you’re not,” she retorts with prim derision. “I’m carrying his baby, Auren. One day, my child will wear a crown.”

I blink at her in surprise. “I...I thought...well, considering you’re not his wife...”

“The king told me himself,” she bites out, face flushing with anger. “My child will be claimed as legitimate and be given everything, while I’ll be taken care of for the rest of my life.”

I’m so shocked by this that all I can do is stare at her.

A pointed finger jabs toward my face. “See? You’re jealous. You wanted to be the one to carry his child, but it’s me, and you hate it.” The venom from her words makes her heave with breath. “Nothing was ever good enough for you, I saw it. We all did, Rissa included.”

The saddle in question arches a brow but says nothing to argue that fact.

Mist is on a roll she won’t seem to stop, wanting to flatten me, a boulder of weight to ostracize me. My ribbons tighten like a fist around my hips as she gets to her feet, the sorry scraps of her baby’s knit cap falling forgotten at her feet. “It’s me the king adores right now, it’s me whose baby will one day sit on the throne, and you hate it. Admit it.”

I get to my feet stiffly, because my spine is itching, like my golden lengths are anticipating her to lunge at us.