Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

The brush of silken tendrils across my swollen cheek wakes me up.

As my eyes peel open, I see my ribbons stretching, curling, moving slowly around me, as if testing for tenderness. I smile at the soft golden glow of them, immediately noting how much better they look and feel. I can actually move them without wincing.

I sit up, careful to keep the furs from falling off, because the pre-dawn morning chill is stark. The coals have long since turned cold with ash, and the tent is dark. I can see the shadowed silhouette of the commander’s body stretched out on his furs, his breaths steady and quiet.

It’s not too surprising that he’s still asleep, since the sun hasn’t risen yet. But seeing him asleep like this, without the pressing demand of his power, without the harsh scowl…it makes him seem different. Less threatening.

I find myself watching him, studying the smooth lines of his face. I’m curious what the silvery scales along his cheekbones would feel like if I touched them. I wonder if it hurts to have his spikes retracted beneath his skin for so long or if he doesn’t even feel it.

But mostly, I wonder what kind of power he carries in his veins. Whatever he’s capable of, it’s vast and ruthless. I can sense it.

His power must be the reason why King Ravinger wields him like a hammerhead. But how did the king even find him? How does he keep the truth from the masses?Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

Are people so content in ignorance that they’ll believe every lie fed to them, despite what they see right in front of their eyes? Then again, perhaps it isn’t ignorance. Maybe it’s just…fear. They don’t want to even consider the alternative. It would make people uneasy, make it hard to sleep at night.

Maybe ignorance isn’t a vice, but a reprieve. And a reprieve into ignorance is something I’ve done myself, many times.

Commander Rip makes a noise in his sleep, low and rumbling, like a faraway quake of the earth, shifting plates that I can almost feel beneath unsteady feet.

He didn’t touch me last night.

Even in my exhausted sleep, he never once tried to take advantage, never even got up from his pallet. I wasn’t chained or watched or hurt. He wasn’t even worried that I’d do something to him while he slept.

Being his captive…it isn’t what I expected. It’s mind games rather than physical harassment. It’s pointed questions instead of vague threats.

I don’t trust it one bit.  

One of my ribbons curls in front of my face, moving in a clear order to get going. I bat it away playfully, carefully peeling away from the furs as I quietly get to my feet.

My body is sore, my bruised side twinging as soon as I stand, but at least my shoulder feels better, so whatever ointment Hojat used on me must’ve helped. The tonic clearly helped too, because while I’m still aching, it’s not nearly as bad as it was yesterday.

I’m immediately cold without the covers, goose bumps rising along my skin. I wish I could dive back beneath the warmth of my pallet, but instead, I grab my dress from where it’s hung and yank it over my head.

With the aid of my ribbons, I get dressed quickly and quietly. I’m so relieved at how much better they feel after only a night’s rest. With one eye on the commander, I slip into my leggings and boots before snatching up the gloves and pulling them on nearly to my elbows, and then I tug on my coat.

I plait my hair in a simple braid down my back that I quickly stuff into the hood of the coat before pulling it over my head. Finished, my ribbons slip beneath the coat and wrap around my torso in loose yet secure loops, adding another layer of insulation.

I creep to the entrance of the tent and duck out, casting one last glance back at the commander. I doubt he’s much of a heavy sleeper, and I don’t want to be caught sneaking out before dawn.

As soon as I’m outside, my breath hitches with the lonely cold that greets me like the empty bedside of an absent lover.

With boots crunching over packed snow, I head toward the latrine so I can get it over with, while the hint of morning begins to cast a gray pallor over the sky.

It seems even colder today than it was last night. My teeth are chattering loudly by the time I leave the latrine, just in time for it to start snowing. I walk back to camp briskly, trying to get my blood moving so I don’t feel so frozen, and I’m greeted by the sounds of the army waking up.

The scent of food drifts over, and I turn to follow it, letting my nose lead me. I pick my way past tents and grumbling men, some yawning, some coughing up phlegm, past more who are breaking down their tents to ready for another day of travel.

I make it to a low burning fire, finding a man presiding over a tripod of sticks with a large iron pot cooking on the flames. He has black skin and long spun hair, pieces of wood dangling from the lengths in tribute to his kingdom’s sigil.

In front of him stands a line of already-dressed soldiers, each of them holding an iron cup. One by one, the man plops a spoonful of whatever it is he’s serving into the cups. As I get closer, I can hear him jabbering to the men he’s serving.

“Don’t give me that look, or you’ll get my foot up your arse. This is what I’ve got to serve.”

Plop.

“Next! Yeah, yeah, walk a little slower, why don’t you?”

Plop.

“You’re sick of porridge? We’re all sick of porridge, you bandy-legged prick,” he says, making the soldier stomp off.

The next one who comes up looks down at the slop with a frown. “Can’t you put some spices in it or something, Keg?”

The man—Keg—tips his head back and laughs, the movement making the wooden pieces in his hair strike together, tinkling hollowly. “Spices? Look around,” he says, swinging his dripping spoon to point at the frozen wasteland. “Does it look like there’s any spices to be had out here in this Divine-forsaken place?”

The soldier walks off with a sigh, but when the next one comes up for his turn, Keg shakes his head and taps his spoon against the huge bowl. “Uh-uh. You know you already got your ration for the day. Get out of my line unless you want my foot up your arse.”

Keg seems to like that threat.

I hesitate behind the soldiers, my stomach grumbling, gaze flicking over to the horizon. There’s a good fifty soldiers in front of me. Maybe I should see if I can find food somewhere else. If I hurry, I might be able to make it to those carts again and—

“Ho there!”

I snap my head over and find Keg looking right at me, but I glance around just in case. All the other soldiers are turning around to peer at me too.

I tug my hood tighter over my face before pointing a finger at my chest. “Me?”

Keg rolls his eyes. “Yes, you. Come on up here.”

The soldiers begin to mutter quietly to one another, noticing me for the first time.

“That’s her.”

“She’s Midas’s gilded woman?”

“She don’t look like much.”

“Eh, I gotta couple of coins more golden than her.”

I sink my chin down until it nearly hits my chest. Their undivided attention makes me want to bolt. Keg must see it in my expression, because he smacks the spoon against the bowl like he’s hitting a gong, the noise clanging loudly enough to put a wince on several soldiers’ faces.

“Come on, girl. Up front,” Keg calls.  

Steeling myself, I walk forward, trying to ignore the attention of the others as I approach. I stop a couple feet away from him, and his dark brown eyes sweep over me. “Ho boy. You’re the Sixth King’s gilded saddle?”

My ribbons tighten around for a moment before I answer. “Yes.”

He nods his head, making the winding lengths of his long hair fall in front of one eye. “I thought you’d be shinier. Stiff. Like I could rap my knuckles against you, and it’d clang like a statue.”

I blink. “What?”

A dripping spoon moves up and down the length of me. “You know, more metallic. Reflective. Cold. But you’re all flesh and warmth, aren’t you? All womanly curves and soft flesh, but just…” He tips his head as if searching for the right word. “Gilded.”

My cheeks are hot beneath the shadow of my hood, and I shift on my feet, undecided if I should spin around and walk away or if it’s worth it to stay so that I can eat. Though, I realize that his words weren’t spoken with any cruelty or lewdness, just with pure surprise instead.

“That’s why she’s called the gilded pet, you idiot,” one of the soldiers gripes behind me, making me tense. “Now can you stop yapping and serve us? We’re hungry, and your slop doesn’t get any better when it’s cold.”

Keg’s attention shifts over my head, and he points his spoon again, making a particularly lumpy bit fall to the ground an inch away from my skirts. “You can fuck off and wait in line, or I’ll dump this here slop on the ground and then plant my foot up your arse, how about that, soldier?”

I can’t help it. I smile.

Keg sees, his smug eyes moving back to me, same as his still outstretched spoon. “See? The gilded one gets me. That means she gets to be served before the rest of you ungrateful lot.”

The men in line groan, but my smile drops off my face, and I shake my head adamantly. “Oh, no. No, that’s okay. I’ll wait,” I insist. The last thing I need is the men behind me taking offense and making me pay for it.

“What the fuck, Keg? She’s a Divine-damned prisoner!” One of them directly behind me growls, which only proves that this is a bad idea.

Keg doesn’t look nearly as worried as I do. “Yeah, well, I like her more than I like your annoying ass voice right now, and seeing as how I’m the cook here, I decide who gets served. So you can take your hairy arses to one of the other cooks’ fires if you don’t like it.”

Keg turns away from the men and grabs a tin cup from a pile on the ground. He dips his spoon into the bowl and plops a serving of porridge in it before holding it out to me. “Here you go, Gild.”

I look over, waiting for more objections, but Keg practically shoves it in my face. “Take it, girl.”

Blowing out a breath and hoping I won’t regret this, I take the cup. “Thanks,” I say quietly.

I grasp the iron cup between my gloved hands, the warmth soaking into my cold palms.

“So…your name is Keg.”

The army’s cook grins at me. “My family owns a brewery back in Fourth. But I got off easy. My older brother is named Distill.” His brown eyes gleam with mirth as he shakes his head. “Unlucky, that. But we’re both a bit jealous of our sister, Barley. She’s got the best name of the lot.”

A surprised chuckle sneaks out of my mouth before I can tuck it back in. Despite my reservations and doubts, Keg is way too easy to like.

I lift the cup to my mouth, the rough metal scraping against my lips as I tip the contents into my mouth. I swallow it all down without really tasting it, which is probably for the best based on the way the men complained about it.

The sludge has the consistency of watery porridge with a few clumpy bits, but it’s hot and it’s edible, so I’m grateful for it. As soon as I swallow every bit, I turn and deposit the empty cup on the ground with the rest of the dirty ones.

Keg bangs his spoon against the bowl with a grin as he looks at me. “Ha! See how fast she ate that? Couldn’t get enough. You all would do well to take some lessons from her.”

“The only lesson anyone could take from the saddle is how to spread her legs.”

My shoulders stiffen, and all of my previous ease leaves me as several of the soldiers bark out laughter.

“I’ll volunteer for that lesson!” someone else calls out. More snickering.

“Aye, me too. Let’s see it!”

My spine goes rigid. Keg frowns.

Then, a dark, foreboding voice answers from across the campfire. “What ‘it’ would you like to see, exactly?”