Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

Bitterness rises up in the shape of a jagged laugh. “Lucky? You think it’s lucky that I’ve lost my castle, lost control of Highbell in the course of a week?”

“That’s not what I—”

“I’m the rightful ruler of Sixth Kingdom,” I interrupt, my eyes feeling as icy as their color. “This is Tyndall’s poison that’s spread through the city, so much so that I’ve been forced out of my home. Forced to hide in this corner of squalor.”

“Right.” The knife slams down as he starts to chop—to butcher the fish like he’s envisioning hacking off something else entirely. “Well, I’m sorry that this place isn’t lavish enough for you, Your Majesty.”

A cold burn comes up to sear through my eyes. “Excuse me?” How dare he talk to me in such a way.

“Look around,” he says, flinging that knife about like it’s an extension of his hand. “Rioters took over your palace. Most of your own soldiers turned on you. You’ve only been ruling here alone for several weeks, and look what’s happened.”

My jawbone is solid ice. One more clench of my teeth and it’ll shatter. “This was all Tyndall’s—”

“Yes, it’s all his fault,” Jeo cuts in, turning to look at me fully. For the first time, I notice how chapped his lips are, how the smooth skin of his face has been made rough with lines of pink, like slaps landed there from winter’s windy hands during his many hours of fishing outside.

And in those lines, that peeling skin, those circles beneath his eyes, I see it. The way I have diminished in his mind. If I were in Highbell, wearing my fine gowns and opal crown on my head, he wouldn’t dare speak to me in such a way.

But I’m here. Run out of my own castle, wearing decades old clothing found in a trunk and half-eaten by moths. I have no servants, no cooks, no advisors, no crown, no castle.

“A queen’s saddle doesn’t speak to her in such a way,” I reply coolly, a warning for him to staunch his tongue.

Redness crawls up his neck, caught low from the stretched out collar of his tunic and coat that’s been worn for too many days. But it’s not embarrassment coloring his freckled skin, it’s anger. “This saddle has been working day and night to keep you fed and warm and comfortable, while all you’ve done is sit around and complain and stare out this dirty window instead of doing something!” he spits.

Shock pools before my lips like a puff of cold air as I stare at him.

After a moment, his anger falters, blue eyes softening an inch. I hate him all the more for it. “You can’t keep waiting for everything to be handed to you and then get angry when it isn’t,” he says quietly.

“If I have a question on how to spread my legs and fuck for a living, I’ll consult you, Jeo,” I say coldly. “But when it comes to being a monarch, you’re vastly underqualified to be giving me any advice.”

He laughs without lifting his lips, the sound without any joy whatsoever. “Of course. How silly of me.”

Jeo slams the knife down and stalks toward the door, making to leave.

“Where are you going?” I demand.

He stops to chuck on his snow-crusted coat and boots. “I’d rather stand out there and try to catch the cold-blooded fish. They’re better company.”

I ignore his little tantrum and motion to the kitchen where the fish he’s already started to maul are still lying on the countertop, mouths agape and bones shucked from their bodies. “What about supper?”

Jeo shrugs as he buttons up. “I’m not a cook, just a saddle, right?” He looks over at Sir Pruinn, who’s just sitting there beside the fire, watching our exchange unabashedly. “Maybe the merchant could get off his arse for a change?”

Without another word, he lets himself out into the snow, slamming the door behind him like a child. A noise crawls up my throat as I watch him walk away, down to the edge of the lake and out of view.

My stomach tightens.

Footsteps click over, and then a pair of hands are on my shoulders, turning me around. My glare drops to the pair of pale hands. “Unhand me, Sir Pruinn.”

The silver-eyed merchant smiles jovially despite my warning. Instead of letting go, he drops his touch to my arm and pulls me away from the tiny kitchen and into the sitting area in front of the fire. “Your royal saddle will be back. He simply needs to work off some steam. You should come and rest your feet.”

“I don’t appreciate being manhandled,” I say, though I do sit down on the stiff cushions of the chair nearest the flames. It doesn’t matter that we feed the fireplace day and night from the logs in the woodpile. No amount of fuel can make me feel those orange flickers. I haven’t lost the chill that’s gathered on my skin since the moment I walked out of Highbell.

Sir Pruinn settles himself on the chair opposite me where he’s been reading some book from the inane collection on the dusty shelf. For a moment, he simply watches me, one ankle resting on his knee, elbow tucked on the armrest so his hand can prop up his head. His idle attention irks me. “What?”

His nickel eyes seem to twinkle. “You don’t deserve any of this. Not at all.”

The defensive knots I have tied in my gut loosen ever so slightly.

He waves his free hand around the room. “You should be in a castle, ruling over subjects who adore and respect you.”