Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

“Is this still about Midas?” I ask, because I want to understand. I need to get a grasp on Rip’s mind, his motivation.

He rolls his eyes. “Must we talk about him?”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

His gaze goes cold. “The real question is, why don’t you hate him?”

I refuse to be baited. “Is it just because your king is his enemy, or is it something more personal?”

“King Ravinger has every right to wage war on Midas. But I’ll lead the fight gladly,” Rip says, grabbing his tunic from the snow and pulling it over his head.

“Why? What’s Midas ever done to you?” I press. “He’s a good king.”

Rip scoffs as he tugs on his black jerkin, securing the leather straps across his chest. “Oh, yes, King Midas with his famous golden touch, loved by all.” He gives me a dry look. “Funny how his kingdom is rife with poverty, when he could simply touch a rock and save his people from cold and starvation. What a great king he is.”

My stomach churns, the bitter taste of acid coating the back of my tongue. I open my mouth to defend Midas, to argue, but no words come out.

Because...Rip’s right.

I saw it with my own eyes when I left Highbell. The ramshackle shanties crumbling to pieces in the shadow of the castle, his people as thin as the rags they wear.

Rip can probably tell from my face that I have no defense, but surprisingly, he doesn’t rub it in. “You can see why I’d like to take him down a notch. Though I suspect my king has other plans.”

My ears perk at that. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing for you to know.”

Frustration narrows my gaze. “What happened to tell a truth for a truth?”

“I’ve told you one from me. The truths of King Ravinger aren’t part of the game.”

“How convenient for you.” I look away at the weak smoke spilling from the logs still steaming in the snow. “Osrik and the others—did they see? Did they hear what I said?” I ask, not wanting to look at him.

“Yes.”

I close my eyes, squeezing, squeezing—ribbons as tight as my lids. “You’re ruining me,” I whisper, cold air brushing against my face like a sorrowful kiss.

I don’t hear him come closer, but I feel it. How could I not? There’s something in him that keeps pressing against my skin, keeps demanding my every sense to awaken.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.”

A heartbeat pulses in that peeking star.

It takes a long moment for me to open my eyes, to take a steadying breath. “I want to see the guards.”

Just as I knew he would be, he’s so close that if I leaned in a few inches, I could press my ear to his chest.

Rip tips his chin. “Alright, Goldfinch. I’ll take you to see the guards.”

He leads me out of the circle, footsteps pressed into snow like a pockmarked ground.

I slip my torn coat over me, thankful that the damage is only at the back and I can still wear it, because I’m suddenly freezing. Anger has a way of burning enough to keep you warm, but when you let it drain away, the absence of that heat leaves you bleak with cold.

Rip keeps us to the edge of camp, not drawing us in toward the tents. In the dark, with only scattered firelight to illuminate us every once in a while, I don’t feel so intimidated by him. Our shadows move together, crossing and melding with one another, like they recognize something familiar.

“How long have you been with King Ravinger?” I ask, voice quiet, though I know he hears my every word, my every breath. Maybe even the staccato of my heartbeat.

“Feels like forever.”