Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

The fire has gone out.

It seems telling, that its flames were snuffed just as my own anger fizzled, just as my show of strength petered out.

I feel like those charred logs, aching with smolder, still smoking from the intensity of burning heat.

When I look up to watch the gray tendrils rise in the air, I see a rare star in the sky, poking out from the clouds like it’s watching me, the Divine cracking open an eye.

I look back down to the ground.

“Why did you do that?”

Rip hasn’t said a word for the last several minutes, maybe because he noticed that I needed time to think. Or maybe he’s just silently gloating because he got what he wanted.

We’re still in the fighting circle, but Osrik, Judd, and Lu are gone, though I have no idea when they left. I don’t even know if they saw, if they heard.

My ribbons tingle from the ghost of his grip, like I can still feel them caught in his hold. He picks up my torn feather coat from the ground and passes it to me, as if he can sense that I need something to hold onto. I’m certainly not holding onto myself. I quickly take it, folding it over my arms.

“You mean why did I push you,” he guesses.Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

“Yes,” I reply, eyes locked down on the feathers of my stolen coat, my ribbons wrapped around me, keeping me together.

“Because you needed me to.”

I bristle at the conceit of that, as if he knows me so well. “You have no idea what I need,” I reply evenly, raising my eyes to look at him. “You’re doing this for you. I just can’t figure out why.”

“I admit, I am getting some personal satisfaction from it,” Rip says without remorse.

“Is this still about Midas?” I ask, because I want to understand. I need to get a grasp on Rip’s mind, his motivation.

He rolls his eyes. “Must we talk about him?”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

His gaze goes cold. “The real question is, why don’t you hate him?”

I refuse to be baited. “Is it just because your king is his enemy, or is it something more personal?”

“King Ravinger has every right to wage war on Midas. But I’ll lead the fight gladly,” Rip says, grabbing his tunic from the snow and pulling it over his head.

“Why? What’s Midas ever done to you?” I press. “He’s a good king.”

Rip scoffs as he tugs on his black jerkin, securing the leather straps across his chest. “Oh, yes, King Midas with his famous golden touch, loved by all.” He gives me a dry look. “Funny how his kingdom is rife with poverty, when he could simply touch a rock and save his people from cold and starvation. What a great king he is.”

My stomach churns, the bitter taste of acid coating the back of my tongue. I open my mouth to defend Midas, to argue, but no words come out.

Because…Rip’s right.

I saw it with my own eyes when I left Highbell. The ramshackle shanties crumbling to pieces in the shadow of the castle, his people as thin as the rags they wear.

Rip can probably tell from my face that I have no defense, but surprisingly, he doesn’t rub it in. “You can see why I’d like to take him down a notch. Though I suspect my king has other plans.”

My ears perk at that. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing for you to know.”

Frustration narrows my gaze. “What happened to tell a truth for a truth?”

“I’ve told you one from me. The truths of King Ravinger aren’t part of the game.”

“How convenient for you.” I look away at the weak smoke spilling from the logs still steaming in the snow. “Osrik and the others—did they see? Did they hear what I said?” I ask, not wanting to look at him.

“Yes.”

I close my eyes, squeezing, squeezing—ribbons as tight as my lids. “You’re ruining me,” I whisper, cold air brushing against my face like a sorrowful kiss.

I don’t hear him come closer, but I feel it. How could I not? There’s something in him that keeps pressing against my skin, keeps demanding my every sense to awaken.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.”

A heartbeat pulses in that peeking star.

It takes a long moment for me to open my eyes, to take a steadying breath. “I want to see the guards.”

Just as I knew he would be, he’s so close that if I leaned in a few inches, I could press my ear to his chest.

Rip tips his chin. “Alright, Goldfinch. I’ll take you to see the guards.”

He leads me out of the circle, footsteps pressed into snow like a pockmarked ground.

I slip my torn coat over me, thankful that the damage is only at the back and I can still wear it, because I’m suddenly freezing. Anger has a way of burning enough to keep you warm, but when you let it drain away, the absence of that heat leaves you bleak with cold.

Rip keeps us to the edge of camp, not drawing us in toward the tents. In the dark, with only scattered firelight to illuminate us every once in a while, I don’t feel so intimidated by him. Our shadows move together, crossing and melding with one another, like they recognize something familiar.

“How long have you been with King Ravinger?” I ask, voice quiet, though I know he hears my every word, my every breath. Maybe even the staccato of my heartbeat.

“Feels like forever.”

I know the feeling.

“And does he know that you have me?”

Rip nods. “He’s aware.”

Dread becomes a hard block of ice in my gut. I don’t really know why, since I’ve been Fourth’s captive all this time. But having Rip in charge as my captor versus King Rot are two very different things. If the king knows about me, it’s only a matter of time until he figures out how he wants to use me.

I’ve come to learn that’s what men do. They use.

“If he orders you to kill me, would you do it?” I ask boldly, a curious glance cast his way.

He pauses, as if caught off guard by my question. “That won’t happen.”

My eyebrows jump up at his naivety. “You don’t know that. I’m Midas’s favored, and the two of them are enemies.” I drop my voice down to a whisper, in case there are any wandering ears. “And if that isn’t enough to condemn me, I just confessed to being a full-blooded fae, the most hated betrayers in Orea. Three of your soldiers heard me, and they could easily slip him that fact.”

“They would never breathe a word to anyone unless I ordered them to. They’re my Wrath.”

I frown. “Your what?”

He gives me a sidelong look. “Lu came up with the name years ago. But the three of them, they’re my handpicked team. They help advise, they each lead their own regiment in my army, and if I have a sensitive mission, they’re the ones who carry out what must be done when I can’t do it myself.”

I’m slightly taken aback. Not at the thought of Rip having a small team of soldiers that he trusts, but at the conviction of his words. He really does trust the three of them—I can hear it in the timbre of his voice.

Still, that doesn’t mean that I trust them.

“They just heard me confess to being a fae. You really think they’re not going to tell anyone? Not tell your king?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

He sounds so certain, and a creeping suspicion has me asking my next question. “They know that you’re fae too, don’t they?”

A single nod in the dark. “They do.”

If we weren’t walking, I’d have sat down for a moment to process that. My head spins as I shake it, lips parted with so many unasked questions. “But that’s…it’s… How?”

“As I said, they’re my Wrath, and they’ve worked alongside me for a very long time. I trust them more than I trust myself sometimes. They would never betray me.”

“But you’re fae. Oreans hate us. Even if your Wrath kept it a secret, how has no one guessed what you are? How has the truth not slipped out?”

Eyes flash over in the dark. “I could ask the same for you.”

“I stay hidden,” I counter. “Or I did before I left Highbell. But you, you’ve been notorious since King Ravinger made you his commander. How does no one see?”

His shoulder lifts. “People accept what they hear if it agrees with their predispositions. They believe I’m the made-monster of King Rot, and I let them because it suits my needs.”

“Does your king know?”

The corners of his lips tilt up. “That’s another question of the king, and like I said, we’re not playing for those.”

I chew on his words like a wad of meat, turning it over, trying to digest it all. “I hope you’re right about your Wrath.” If not, I’m screwed.

“I am. But you owe me a truth now.”

Nervousness takes off like a flock of birds in my stomach. “What do you want to know?”

“Who is your family?”

The bones of my chest seem to fuse, my breath snapped into stillness, my surprise palpable. I wasn’t expecting him to ask me that.

“My family is dead,” I choke out.

He pauses. “A name, Goldfinch.”

His question presses, demanding. I shouldn’t have traded truths with him. I should’ve known the payment would be too steep.

“I don’t remember my family’s name.” My confession hurts. It scrapes something inside, leaving me raw.

He gives me a second to settle in the silence, maybe to trick me into thinking he won’t keep digging, but I know he will. All he does is challenge and poke and prod and cleave. Maybe that’s why they call him Rip—because he tears through people, rips open their truths.

“Where are you from?”

“Why do you want to know?” I shoot back. “How are you going to use this against Midas?”

I see the dark outline of his hand curl into a fist. “Like I told you before, we’re not talking about him.”

All the quiet calmness that was between us is suddenly gone, no trace of it left behind. But it’s better this way, I try to tell myself. It’s better for us to be at odds, where we belong.

“Osrik told me when I first got here that you expected me to sing, to spill all Midas’s secrets,” I point out. “The least you could do is not deny it and make me feel stupid. Don’t try to trick me.”

He scoffs, a rough, malignant sound. “The only person tricking you is your golden king. Tell me, when did you decide to trade your ruination for his?” he asks cruelly.

My lips press together in a firm line, but his viciousness reminds me what an asshole he is, reminds me of what he is to me. His anger sets me back on more familiar ground than whatever confusing misstep we took tonight. We’re not friends. We’re not allies. We’re on opposing sides.

“I’ll always choose him,” I say, facing off against him in the dark.

“So you’ve said,” he retorts scathingly. “I wonder, if the roles were reversed, if he’d so easily give up his truths for yours. What sacrifices has your king made for you?”

“He’s done plenty,” I retort.

His expression goes flat, as cold as the night air. “Right. Like taught you to be ashamed of everything you are.”

My spine goes rigid and fuses with hurt. I feel tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I dash them away before they can fall, furious with myself. Why am I giving his words any leverage? How is it that he can always slash through me with a single swing of words?

Rip turns and points, and my eyes follow the direction of his hand. A few paces away, there’s some kind of large walled cart—the kind where prisoners are kept. Beside it, there are several of Fourth’s soldiers standing watch near a small campfire. Some of them are looking our way, nervous glances traded between them.

“Your guards are kept there. I’m sure they’ll be good company for you. Go swap stories of Midas’s greatness. I’ve got better things to do.”

My chest twinges as he abruptly turns and stalks off, barking an order at the gathered soldiers to let me visit, but to watch me. Then he disappears into the camp without giving me a second glance, not staying to see the tear that freezes on its way down my cheek.

The ache in my chest doesn’t go away, not even when I finally lay my eyes on the guards and reassure myself that they’re okay. Because even though I’m glad to see them, to know they haven’t been hurt or killed, I’m gutted, devastated.

Devastated, because who I was really looking for, who I really wanted to see, isn’t there. The only person who gives me a sense of home when I’m around him, is absent.

The pain of not finding Digby’s face in the group is a punch to the gut. It hurts. The last of my hope is cut, and it hurts.

Midas’s guards are okay, but my guards are not.

Sail is drifting somewhere in a tomb of snow, and Digby is lost forever. And I have to face that now, alongside Rip’s digging words that are scraping against my chest.

Crystal tears fall as I walk back to my tent alone. Above me, that squinting star closes her eye and hides behind the clouds.