Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

My wet eyes look up at him, because I hadn’t even realized I’d spoken aloud.

Midas straightens up, fixes the crown atop his head so it’s perfectly aligned as he gives an impassive inspection over the tears that land on the binds around my wrists.

“Stay here, or I’ll drag your lover up from the dungeon and kill him in front of you,” he purrs, the threat kept soft in the lurk of his tone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a toast to make. Enjoy the show, Precious.”

My gaze stays fixed on the ribbon after Midas leaves the mezzanine. There’s a ballad playing below, though I don’t hear it. I just stare and stare at the gold that Midas has used to ensnare me. As the truth of who he really is—then and now—builds in my head like the squall of a tempestuous force.

When I fled Derfort Harbor and sailed across the Weywick Sea in the ship with cerulean sails, there was a single storm on the journey.

Just one.

It didn’t happen at night. There was no darkness that swallowed the sea and made it look like we were sailing on starlight and storm clouds.

No, this was during the bold noon of day, when the sun shone milky and high, split down the middle with bulbous clouds that came to purge like a blister.

I should’ve gone to the lower levels when it hit, but I didn’t. I’m not sure why. Maybe I couldn’t bear the thought of being sequestered below deck, stuck in a stagnant room no bigger than a closet with a hammock for a bed and a bucket for an upturned stomach.

But really, I think the truth is that I wanted to feel the air as it raged.

So I was up there on deck beneath a speckled sky that was neither dark nor light, but somehow both at the same time. With my feet planted beneath crouching knees, I kept my arms wrapped around the rough rail for dear life as my hair whipped at my face.

The ship rocked back and forth like a cradle ready to tip, and waves came up to slap against the deck in the angry hit of a sea god. I could see the shouts being tossed back and forth between the small crew, but their voices were swallowed up. The thrashing wind tore the sounds from where they belonged and seemed to throw them clear across the water.

But even as fear gripped me that I’d be tossed overboard or that the sea would break the ship in half and swallow it whole, I was in awe of the storm that seethed. In awe of the sudden change that took over the clear day and smooth waters and turned it into a violent surge.

Whatever it was that drew me up there that day, it meant that I was there to watch the lightning strike the water. I was there to see what happens when a force of nature unleashes.

The lightning was a jagged arrow shot from the bow of the cloud. It struck the choppy, maelstrom of waves, and a fissure of electric cracks erupted over the surface of the water like it had shattered the sea.

And that’s what this is like.

Like I’m hanging on for dear life as bulbous clouds form inside of me, fed by the fumes of Midas’s revelations. A heavy barrage has built within the frenzy of my kinetic thoughts, a thunderbolt ready to splinter the tumultuous waves within. Ready to land with a fatal strike.

I’ve been drowned out by the force of the storm.

My gaze plods over the ribbon one last time before I get to my feet, hands clasped together as if in prayer. I walk over to the balcony of the mezzanine and look below, seeing Midas at the dais with Queen Kaila and Prince Niven, Oreans dotting the floor like confetti.

But there, cutting through the throng like the drive of an iron stake, is Slade.

The moment my eyes latch onto him, he stops in his tracks and looks up, gaze meeting mine, as if he could feel me looking at him.

A sob lodges in my throat. Even though he’s right there, he feels so very far away.

Even from the distance between us, it’s as if he can see me right up close, because something fierce flashes in his face. Something furious on my behalf.

With darkness looming over his brow, he starts stalking forward again, eyes not leaving my face.

He’s coming for me.

But his stride is suddenly interrupted when Midas’s voice cuts through the din. “Time for the royal toast! King Ravinger, if you would join us?”

Slade stops in his tracks as the people turn to look at him, though they give him a wide berth. For a moment, he hesitates, and the crowd looks from him to Midas and back again.

“King Ravinger?” Midas presses.

Even from up here, I can see Slade grind his jaw. His eyes flash up to me again for a split second, and I give a tiny nod to urge him to go. Only then does he reluctantly turn around and head back.

He comes to a stop with the other three monarchs on the raised dais. Midas stands in the middle with Queen Kaila on his left, Niven on his right, and Slade takes up his spot right beside the prince. A saddle hurries over to serve them each a gold goblet. Movement ripples through the rest of the room as the crowd hurries to grab drinks of their own.