Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

I shake my head, feeling strands of my hair come loose from my braid, sweat gathering at the nape of my neck.

He leans in, getting closer to my face, making me flinch back. “Aww, come on, show me your golden claws, pet. Let’s see what you got.”

The shouts of the crowd crash against my ears, yelling at me to fight. The sound, the very energy beats against my skin, against my resolve, pushing me from every direction. I can taste violence from their every exhale until it feels like I might burst from it.

I’m surrounded by noise and pressure, pressure and noise, and I just want it to stop.

“Stop,” I say, but my hands are shaking now, the bloodthirsty onlookers making my own mouth go dry.

“You walked in here, what did you think was going to happen?” he demands.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest,” I mumble. Judd tips his head back and laughs.

Osrik would love if I tried to attack him, because we both know I wouldn’t stand a chance. And if I attacked him, he’d have free reign to attack me. No thanks.

“Come on, Midas’s pet. Where’s your fight?” Osrik goads, the taunt beating against my chest.

My entire body is tense, everything so loud that I can’t discern between my pulse and the stomping feet of the crowd.

I back up a step, two, three.

He eats up the space in a single stride. “What’s wrong? You’re not scared, are you?”

I am scared. But it’s not just of him. Not, really.

I’m here, but I’m also there. Cornered against a building, rough brick at my back, while men peck at me, plucking at my ribbons, ripping at my hair, tugging at my dress.

The crowd back then, even though it was only half a dozen or so, still sounded the same. That familiar clamor, with me caught in the swell of its crash.

I don’t want to get swept away again.

“Enough, Os.”

Somehow, that single steady voice pierces through all the noise. The sound makes everyone go quiet, the bubble of pressure suddenly popping.

I turn my head and see Rip standing there, and the shock of his presence is like a bucket of cold water dumped over my head.

Osrik, the bastard, has the audacity to chuckle. “Aww, but it was just starting to get interesting. I think I almost got her.”

Rip’s face is unreadable as his black eyes skate away to the soldiers standing around. “Everyone back to camp.” His command strikes down like lightning, and everyone scatters, trying to outrun a storm.

It’s shocking just how quickly they follow orders. No grumbling, no hesitation. In a split second, they go from a riled horde to a compliant regiment. Absolute obedience to their commander.

Osrik looks at Twig. “Go on, boy. We’ll train tomorrow.”

Twig nods and scoops up his clothes. He hesitates, turning to me. “Umm, Miss?”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Thanks for thinking you were protecting me...but can you not do that again? They’re gonna give me shit for this for weeks.”

“Umm, yes. Sorry.”

Osrik and Judd snicker.

“Language, Twig.”

The boy’s head swivels toward Rip, who’s somehow made it all the way over to us without me seeing him move. “Sorry, sir,” the boy replies with immediate contrition.