Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

“He hit you.” Slade grinds out the words, each one spoken from sharp back teeth.

Midas has done far more than that, but emotional assault doesn’t leave any marks on the skin.

Lines of power snap against Slade’s jaw like miniature vipers, and my gaze follows their insipid movements. “How long has he been doing this?”

“That was the first time.”

He looks wholly unconvinced. “And at the dinner table?”

“What about it?” I hedge.

“There was a moment when your expression changed. Was he hurting you then?”

“Just a pinch.” I don’t dare hint that the just a pinch was more than one, or that they left such dark bruises on my skin that they’re still sore to the touch. The only good thing about Midas’s physical assault is that he’s left me alone since then.

“He won’t ever touch me again,” I declare,

because I already made that promise to myself.

Something boils inside of Slade, burning so hot that my hand sears beneath his. “You asked me why I don’t just kill him,” he says, his hard, pitiless eyes hooked on my face. “But why don’t you?”

I blink in surprise as he throws my question back in my face, and my ribbons wilt, falling onto the floor like plucked petals.

His finger comes up to skim against my cheek, and even though he doesn’t lose control again, he’s no less angry.

“Since the moment I arrived in Fifth Kingdom, I’ve thought about little else other than ripping him to shreds with my bare hands. But do you know what stops me?” he asks, his thumb still caressing, our beats still in rhythm. “More than politics and potential world wars.”

I don’t want to ask, but I do anyway. “What?”

“You.”

My mind recoils at the way he spits the word, at the bitterness that stains his exhale, and I yank my hand away from his chest, like I’ve been scalded by it. “Me?”

“Yes. You would hate me for it, because for whatever reason, you still care for him.”

“I don’t,” I argue, saying it again when he scoffs at me.

“Oh, really?” he challenges. “Then ask me.”

My mind stumbles, like I’m riding too fast downhill and the speed is getting away from me. “Ask you...?”

“Ask me to kill him for you.”

I blanch, feeling the blood drain from my face. That was the very last thing I expected him to say.

Everything about Slade right now is fierce, unfettered, and completely fae, despite those parts of him hidden from view. “You say the word, and it’s done. You hear me?” His hand lifts, and he snaps his fingers so loud that I flinch. “That quick, Auren. I’d end him in a breath, in a room full of people who’d run screaming, with monarchs who’d band together against me. But if you wanted me to do it, I would. So say it.”

“It’s not just about me,” I try to explain, but he doesn’t even seem to hear me.

Slade looks at me with that crude, horrible challenge in his expression. “Say it!” he shouts, making me flinch.

“I-I can’t.”

A flash of utter disappointment crystallizes in his eyes. And that gesture as sharp as glass cuts me to the bone. It’s a wound much worse than the one I sustained on my cheek.

“Exactly.” He turns and moves away a few steps, and I feel the space between us like a chasm that I have no hope of crossing. “Which is why I refuse to ruin my chances over that worthless fucker,” he hurls out the insult between bitten teeth. “If I killed him—and make no mistake, Auren, I would gladly kill him for you, damn the consequences. But if I did, the truth is right there on your face. You’d resent me for it. Even if you don’t want to admit it. And isn’t that just a fucking cruel twist of it all?”

Tears build up in my eyes with every pent-up word that peels off him, but I don’t let them drop this time. Not even as they burn and puddle on my lids.