Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

“King Rot killed our prince!” a woman cries in hysterics, making everyone erupt into a frenzy again.

My heart drops right down through my toes as I watch everything unfold, as I remember what he said.

I own half of Orea.

Not yet.

You won’t be saying that after tonight.

My mind riots, fury rising up, because this is him. This scheme, this murder, is Midas’s doing. He’s orchestrated yet another monarch’s death and pinned the blame on someone else.

Midas turns to Slade, as if he’s both troubled and repelled at the very thought. “King Ravinger, we will have to detain you for these accusations.”

“You can fucking try,” Osrik snarls beside him, his voice booming from beneath his helmet.

The entire room bristles with outrage. And I can see it—the secret smirk in Midas’s eye.

No.

Like this is a ball of unravelling yarn, I know how the string will roll out. There’s no way Slade will go willingly. Even from here, I can feel something building in him, feel that nauseating, deathly power of his coiling in the air.

My feet are moving before I even blink. I’m tugging and pulling at the ribbon, forcing it down, until I can slip one of my hands out from its hold, leaving only my left wrist still bound with its loops.

Midas isn’t just here to take over Fifth and marry into Third. It’s not enough for him. It’s never enough. And Slade is the most powerful opponent he’s ever faced.

So Midas figured out a way to take him out too.

Didn’t Slade tell me himself that he doesn’t make a move against Midas because of the people? For the very reason of what I see playing out in the ballroom right now?

They’ll hate him, rise up against him. The other monarchs will attack his kingdom. He’ll become the scapegoat for everyone to hate.

Slade will have no choice but to retaliate tonight, just to ensure Midas doesn’t throw him in a dungeon, leaving him to rot like his name. Since Slade won’t let that happen, that means he’ll use his power to get out of here and seal his kingdom’s fate.

I can’t let that happen.

Something in me, that brewing storm held against a sunlit sea, it starts to crackle. That creature nesting in the clouds of my electric anger calls out, her screech like thunder.

Like a gust of air catapults me, I rush toward the mezzanine door. I turn the handle and let myself out as the beat of my heart thrashes like pounding waves against my ribs.

Down the stairs, I pass a foursome of guards, two of which are Scofield and Lowe, the other two I recognize from that cold, dim room. I catch them off guard by my sudden appearance, but I don’t stop, even though my anger is hurled at them with a lashing tongue.

“My lady!” Scofield calls.

“I am not your lady.” My tone has no softness, no familiarity. It’s spoken from my mouth, and yet, the voice is harder, flatter, carrying hate and betrayal with every press of teeth.

Scofield’s steps falter as I rush past, either from the disdain in my voice or the guilt he bears. In fact, none of the guards move to bar me, and I wonder if it’s because of the shame they carry for their part in my torture.

Good.

The ribbon tied around my wrist sears against my skin, burning with the same anger that’s brewing in my veins.

I hope they’re thinking of what they did to me. I hope Scofield is remembering his fingers mashing the petals into my mouth. Or how they all pinned me against the wall while Midas cut off my ribbons. I hope they never stop hearing my screams from that room, because I certainly won’t.

The archway of the ballroom is a gaping mouth that I get swallowed into. It’s only taken me seconds to get from the mezzanine to down here, but the atmosphere of the crowd has worsened, brewing its own kind of storm. The people have surged forward as close to the dais as they can get, while servants and saddles are pressed against the walls.

I push myself through the gilded room, and for once, everyone is too focused on something else to pay me any notice at all. The guards get lost in the throng, unable to follow my path as I slip past people. My feet take me straight to the side of the dais, where Ranhold guards are now circling Slade and his Wrath.

Even with the anger of the crowd, everyone has enough sense to stay back, and it isn’t because of Osrik’s, Lu’s, and Judd’s imposing figures. No, what holds them back is Slade himself.