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Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

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“Let her go. Now.”

His voice is a rupture of violent threat so cold that I actually shiver.

“Hold back your rot and your soldiers, Ravinger,” Midas threatens, and I feel the edge of sharpness digging into my skin. I hiss in pain as the blade sinks in, and feel something wet dribble down.

Slade’s green eyes bleed black. “You are a fucking dead man.”

I can practically feel the satisfaction hum in Midas’s chest. Slade showed his hand—showed that he’s not willing to chance me getting hurt.

I scrabble against Midas’s arm, trying to pull it away from my neck, but his hold is too firm, and one knock against my back makes me arch in pain. The blade digs in with a silent order to hold still, right over a healed scar in the same exact spot.

Automatically, my wide eyes lock onto Digby, and I know we’re both remembering when Fulke held me the same way. It was a different blade and a different king, but the threat was the same. Death’s promise held against my throat.

But this time, Digby can’t save me.

Midas holds me tighter, backing up a step as I look around wildly at the guards that circle him, at the Wrath held at bay, bodies tense, like they’re just waiting for Slade’s order. At Digby’s wide-eyed face, his broken body still held up by Fake Rip.

“Leave now, or I’ll slit her throat,” Midas threatens.

Fear pounds down my limbs. No one moves a single muscle.

“You won’t kill her,” Slade snarls. I don’t know if it’s denial or a promise.

“If I can’t have her, no one can.” Midas’s cold, calculating voice makes my heart drop. Because I can hear the truth binding his words. He would rather kill me than let me leave. He’s betting on both of our lives that Slade won’t risk it, and he bet right.

“Go now, Ravinger. You have thirty seconds, or I will kill her.”

The Wrath shift on their feet. Fake Rip looks at me, fury flickering over his face.

But Slade’s gaze is locked on me. “Use your ribbons,” he urges, and a choked sob curdles from my cinched throat.

“I can’t.”

Midas pulls my body closer, his hold banded around my waist so hard that it’s a struggle to breathe, especially as he chuckles against me. “Oh, she didn’t tell you? She lost that privilege.”

Slade’s eyes drop when Midas motions to my left hand where the ribbon is still tied loosely around my limb.

Something like appalled torment flushes over Slade’s face as his eyes flash from my ribbon and back to my face. “Auren...”

Tears that feel like fire burn down my cheeks, and my chest expands with the cry of rumbling rage that builds like a storm.

“She’s helpless and completely at my mercy, and she will die at my hand if you force it.”

My anger lifts up her head from the billowing clouds, the word helpless echoing inside of them, clinking with electric frenzy.

“Ten seconds, Ravinger,” Midas barks against my ear, but I don’t hear him. I don’t hear what Slade says back either, or note the agonized hesitation on his face as my eyes flutter closed.

Because there’s thunder in my ears.

The furious, feathered, snapping beast is brooding on a storm, and I’m ready to watch it rage. Wings opening, teeth gleaming, her eyes as gold as mine. And her screech, that call that ruptures like lightning, it doesn’t shatter a sea. It shatters me.

A scorching threat opens up in me like a crack in the earth, and maybe Midas can feel it too, because his steps stumble.

My mouth opens with a decadent inhale, and this anger, it’s like a breath of fresh air that I never let myself take before.

But I’m breathing in now, and I find I like the taste.

My eyes wrench open, body unfurling, a roaring of storm-ravaged waves filling my ears. I look down at my hands, at the fire that burns beneath the skin, and I feel nothing but untapped, wild, raw power.



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