Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

And right now, in this moment, I seize it like it’s a sign from the goddesses.

So I turn around and run.

I run like I’ve never run in my entire life. My feet pound against the boardwalk, skirt whipping around my legs, hair flying back with my hood.

I can hear shouts, but it just makes me go faster, my steps avoiding the merchants and sailors that I pass, darting around them when I leap onto the dock.

My too-tight boots punish my toes as my feet pound against the timeworn wood, my lungs burning from the demand of my sprint, but I don’t stop.

Not even when my foot catches on a rolling cart, nearly sending it and me toppling over. Not even when the merchant curses me while several others turn to look. I just keep going, eyes set on the closest boat on the dock and its rope being untwined from the post.

I can make it...I have to make it.

Please let me make it.

The trip up with the cart lost me precious seconds—precious distance—so I don’t dare chance a look over my shoulder. I can’t afford to look. Every second, every step, counts.

“Stop!” one of Zakir’s men shouts.

But I won’t stop, not now, when I’ve finally decided to try.

One more pounded step along the dock, and then, I jump.

I jump right for the little boat already starting to row away, for the small open space right at the back of it.

For a moment, both time and my body seem to suspend.

And then I hit feet-first in a landing that shoots pain up both legs. I nearly topple overboard, capsizing the boat with me, but surprised shouts ring out, and the people I’ve unceremoniously joined manage to hold it steady before it can tip.

A man with a weather-worn face and sunspots along his cheeks snarls a

t me as he grabs my arm. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, girl?”

“Just throw her over, Hock!” another man in the boat says.

“No! Please!”

Hock ignores me, of course, and starts to yank my arm, but he pauses when a voice says, “Stop.”

The man and I freeze, both turning to look at the woman sitting at the front of the boat, a pair of oars clasped in her hands. She’s tall, and has chin-length brown hair shorn crooked, and a hard face in blotches of pink and peel.

“Why are you all gold?” she questions boldly.

“Oh, um.” I fumble for a moment before saying, “Some of the saddles here paint themselves. Drives up customers.”

She lets out a scoff but continues to row, as if she’s not even bothered that a painted girl just practically leapt in her lap.

Shouts from the dock have me whipping my head back to see Zakir’s men skid to a stop, their arms waving as they shout for the boat to turn around and return me. My stomach roils at the look on their faces, and one of them starts to rip off his shirt, like he’s going to dive in and get me.

“You trying to escape, gold girl?” the woman asks, drawing my attention back to her.

Her brown eyes are without warmth, but they don’t hold cruelty either. She looks like the sort of person who shoots straight.

“Yes, but I can pay,” I answer quickly. “Please. Just take me to your ship, and I’ll ask your captain for passage. I’m not a stowaway. I have coin for the trip.”

Her shoulders roll, heaving the oars back, continuing to row us along. A splash behind me sends my heart racing, and I know that one of Zakir’s goons is swimming toward me.

“Mara...” the other man in the boat cautions.