Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

“I suppose I don’t have to ask the two of you that question,” he jokes.

&nbs

p; My mouth drops open in mortification, but before I can form a response, Slade strides into the room half dressed, pants hanging low on his hips, black shirt unbuttoned. He walks straight over to Fake Rip and smacks him on the back of his head, helmet be damned. “Don’t make me rot your tongue this early in the morning.”

Fake Rip chuckles with a shrug, barely glancing up from the map. “Just wanted to see what color her skin turns when she blushes.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Slade says as he starts to button up his shirt, hiding all those sexy muscles I love looking at. “Apologize to her.”

Fake Rip reaches behind him and grabs my coat, holding it out to me. “Sorry, little golden girl.”

I snatch the coat and pull it on before I sit down and shove my feet into my boots and do up the laces. From my peripheral, I notice Fake Rip looking at Slade. “So I take it we’re not leaving now.”

Stealing a look up at Slade, I notice his face has gone stony.

“That’s what I thought,” Fake Rip says, though his tone has taken on a slightly bitter edge. “Then are you going to send me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

A curse grits out from behind Fake Rip’s black helmet. “Dammit, you know we can’t fuck around with this. We need to go and see—”

“I know,” Slade bites out. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Fake Rip shakes his head, grumbling something too low for me to hear. I quickly tie up the rest of my boots, feeling both awkward and curious about overhearing this conversation.

“Ready?” Slade asks, coming up to stand beside me as soon as I’m finished.

“You can’t come with me.”

He frowns. “I don’t like the idea of you creeping out of here alone like a dirty secret. I’ll be discreet.”

“Right. Because no one will notice King Rot walking the gold-touched favored down the halls at four in the morning,” I say with a snort. “We both know I need to go alone so that no one sees.”

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, we’re stuck in some sort of standoff. Then, without looking away, he says, “Give us a minute.”

Fake Rip makes a noise of irritation, but he gets to his feet and stomps out of the room, heading for the balcony.

When we’re relatively alone, Slade runs a hand through his mussed, coal-black hair. I can say from experience that it’s just as soft as it appears. But instead of saying anything, he hesitates, looking torn.

“I appreciate the sentiment of you wanting to walk me, but we both know it’s not a good idea. I really do need to go.” Something flickers in his eyes, making me frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything,” he replies in frustration. “I don’t like having you slink out of here on your own. What if Midas is there?”

“He won’t be,” I reassure him. “He hardly ever comes to see me during the day unless he needs me to use my power. And he’s been avoiding me since...” I trail off, biting my lip, but Slade hears what I don’t say, his deep green eyes flicking to my cheek.

“He better not touch you again.”

“He won’t.”

Still, Slade doesn’t seem to be placated. “Tell me you aren’t pulling back.”

My brows crease. “Pulling back?”

“You’re not having regrets, are you?” he asks me, gaze intent on my face.

So that’s what this is about. My eyes soften, voice gentling. “Last night was a lot of things, but a regret isn’t one of them.”

Relief seems to evaporate the tension from his shoulders as he lets out a breath. “Good. It would’ve been really time-consuming to tie you down on the bed all day.”