Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

The fire hasn’t yet been lit, but I ignore the chill as I walk over and yank open the nightstand drawer. There are a few sheets of parchment inside, and I grab them along with a quill and ink, and hastily scrawl a note for her.

I don’t dare say too much. Everything I write will undoubtedly be relayed to Midas, so I simply invite her to come up to my rooms for tea. A seemingly innocent request, but Rissa will know something is amiss.

I’ll tell her about the offer to leave with me in Fourth’s army, and I’ll get her to convince Mist to come with us. I have a feeling I’m going to need to give her a hell of a lot of gold.

Meanwhile, Lu will find Digby, and then we’ll get out of here.

I’ll finally be free.

Heading over to my bedroom door, I open it, startling Scofield and Lowe, who are sitting just outside. I just can’t shake these two.

“My lady, did you need something?” Scofield asks.

With the message folded between my fingers, I pass him the paper. “Can you have this delivered to the royal saddle wing? It’s for Rissa.”

His light brown eyes flick down to my outstretched hand for a second before I hear, “I’ll take that.”

My head turns at Midas’s voice, and the guards practically jump out of the way. He grabs the letter before I can react, reading it with a skim of his gaze.

“No need,” he says, folding it back up and slipping it into the pocket of his golden trousers. “You won’t be here for tea today, Precious.”

My stomach bottoms out, but he comes inside before I can reply, and I instinctually move out of the way, not wanting to be anywhere near him. The golden buttons on his tunic are shaped like bells, filigree thread reaching up toward his collar and down each cuff. He’s immaculate as always, smooth jaw and pressed pants, shoes so shiny that they reflect the room.

The base of my ribbons lift like hackles, and when he motions to someone behind him, I watch as a maid comes inside and heads right for the fireplace, setting it alight with fresh wood and kindling.

I stay right where I am, back facing the wall next to the door, my eyes not leaving him as he saunters around, probably noting whatever else I’ve gilded in this room since he was last here.

The corporeal anger borne beneath my ribs makes her presence known once again, the creature bloomed from soured soil tilled in the resentment of my soul. I’d had a reprieve for a while—distracted from my fury by Slade’s presence, but now she’s back in full force.

I haven’t seen Midas since he struck me.

My cheek may be healed, but the mark he left on me doesn’t show on my skin. It’s soaked in, saturated far below, twined to the crevices of my contained fury.

I look at him and think, do you know? Do you know that Queen Kaila intends to kill the woman carrying your child? Do you even care? Did you give Kaila your blessing?

The sad truth of it is, he probably did. Why settle for a bastard child from a saddle when you can have a legitimate heir from a young queen?

When the maid leaves and I’m alone with him, Midas finally looks at me, smoothing a hand over his honeyed locks. His brown gaze flicks to my cheek, relief there for one second before it’s gone again.

I was right about him avoiding me. He didn’t want to

see the guilt of his actions tarnished on my face.

“How are you, Precious?”

I’d be really fucking good if he never called me that again.

“Fine.” Everything about my posture is stiff, unable to fake any sort of pleasantness.

There’s a hesitancy in his demeanor, but it’s not him trying to tread carefully. It’s something else. Something I can’t quite pinpoint.

He gives a sharp nod. “I apologize for not being more attentive. I’ve been very busy, gone most every day to meet with Queen Kaila or make appearances in the city or deal with my advisors and the prince. Fifth and Sixth Kingdoms have needed my attention as well as a firm hand.”

I swipe a finger along my cheekbone. “Well, I think it’s safe to say you definitely have the firm hand perfected.”

He sucks in a breath, jaw tightening, but just as quickly, he exhales out the anger, shaking his head before he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m sorry. You know I am. I’ve been riddled with guilt since that night.”

“Guilt doesn’t assuage the guilty.”