Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

It’s dark inside the carriage, but the flash of eyes and the movement of their shadowy figures reveals the four hawks inside.

It’s a testament to their training, because they don’t startle or snap, they just look at me with boredom.

Even in the shadows, I can see that they’re gorgeous birds, large for their breed. Their tawny feathers carry a sheen that extends to their sharp beaks and feet.

I note their perches built into the walls, the bones of dead rodents picked clean amongst the brush at the floor. Above, there’s an open window cut into the wood, allowing the hawks to come and go, letting faint moonlight in.

Swallowing, I glance down at the flat surface in front of me, the wood extended out like a desk, perfect for mobile message writing. Everything I need is here, right down to rolled bits of blank parchment stuffed into holes, bottles of ink and feathered quills set into indentations at the front.

I look around me again, but all is still and quiet.

Turning back to the desk, I reach forward and grab a roll of parchment, tearing off a small strip. I flatten it out, using a bottle of ink to keep the edge down, and then lift the quill, dipping it in.

My hand is trembling so badly that I nearly overturn the bottle, but I manage to catch it before it can tip.

“Get it together, Auren,” I whisper to myself.

Pressing the metal nib against the parchment, I write quickly, sloppily, my handwriting so much worse than its usual drawl. But it’ll have to do, because I’m in too much of a rush, too shaken on adrenaline and fear. My message is overly simple and hasty, but it’s the best I can do.

Fourth’s army has captured me and the others. They’re marching on you. Prepare.

—Your Precious

I drop the quill back in its holder and find a box of fine sand in the desk. I pinch a bit of the powder between my fingers and toss it over the wet words to speed up the set of the ink.

As soon as it’s dry enough not to smear, I start to roll up the paper, but freeze at the sound of approaching soldiers.

“You got any smokes left?” a gruff voice asks.

“Yeah. In my fuckin’ pocket, and you’re not gettin’ any of them.”

“Aw, fuck off. I need a smoke.”

There’s a sigh, and then the footsteps stop, and I hear the distinct sound of a match striking.

There are only the two of them from the sound of it, but they’re several paces away, coming up the other side of the hawk’s carriage. If they head for the horses, I’ll be caught.

Biting my lip, I stare down at the rolled paper in my hand. I could flee right now, take the letter with me, and try to come back again.

But this might be my only chance.

Heart pounding, sweat collecting in beads at the back of my neck, I lean in and reach for the perch post inside the carriage.

The soldiers are talking, a few coughs to go with their smoke, but I focus, trying not to panic. Opening my hand, I show the hawk the parchment, hoping it’s as well trained as it appears to be.

The largest hawk snaps its beak at the others, as if claiming the job, and then jumps down from its higher perch. Landing at the post near my hand, the bird immediately turns so I can reach its legs.

Thank the Divine.

I grasp the empty metal vial attached to its right leg and pop open the cap. Left for north and right for south.

The soldiers start walking again, and my eyes flare with alarm, making me nearly drop the damn letter. I manage to keep hold of it and stuff it into the vial, and as soon as it’s in, I snap the top back on with the pad of my thumb.

The hawk stretches its leg, as if noting which direction to fly, and then it expertly launches itself up, flying out through the open window cut into the ceiling and flapping into the sky.

I hear a curse, some shuffling in the snow. “What the Divine hell?” the man grumbles.

The other soldier chuckles. “You gonna shit your pants from a little hawk?”

I immediately back up and close the small door as quietly as I can, but I’m too nervous to latch it, in case it makes a noise.

“Why’s that thing even going out right now? There’s no damn messages.”

I freeze, eyes widening. It feels like my heart might beat right out of my chest.

“The thing hunts at night, you idiot.”

“Oh.”

With a puff of relief exhaling out of me, I let go of the handle and carefully round the corner of the carriage, putting it between me and them. My boots scrape over the snow, and I know that I’m damn lucky the horses are right behind me, covering up the sound as I slowly back up.

“Damn, those fucking horses smell.”

“You’re a whiny bastard. Why do I always get stuck on patrol with you?”

“Because I give you smokes,” the man says dryly.

“Oh. Right,” he chuckles.

I crouch down to peek beneath the carriage, seeing their black boots on the other side. Snow dampens my skirts as I silently crab walk backwards with the tangled fabric around my knees. I slink toward the front of the carriage, watching their steps reach the back.

But they stop, boots turning just as I round the front.

“Huh. Latch is open.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. Shit.

I look around in a panic for somewhere to hide, but the nearest spot is a tent ten feet away, and it’s right in their line of vision. Unless I want to risk going back toward the horses, but what if I startle them?

“You gonna stare at it all night? Close the fucking thing and let’s go closer to the fire. It’s cold enough to freeze my prick off out here.”

A snort. “Must not be much to it, then.”

“Fuck off.”

I hear one of them close the back latch with a click, and the hawks inside make a quiet screech, either in appreciation or irritation. Still crouched down to watch, I see the soldiers walking away, heading back to the warmth of one of the low-burning campfires.

I’m so relieved that I fall back on my ass in the snow, not even caring that more wet cold is soaking through my dress. I sit there for a moment with a hand over my racing heart, trying to calm down.

After a minute or two, I pick myself up off the ground and start walking as quickly as I can, adrenaline still riding me. It’s not until I make it all the way back to my empty, dark tent that it well and truly sinks in.

I did it.

I actually did it! I got a message to Midas. He’ll have a warning now, a chance to prepare. The advantage of Fourth’s element of surprise is gone.

A smile of victory pulls past frozen teeth, my lip cracking slightly from the chapped cold. My dress is wet, I’m freezing, and I was nearly caught, but I actually did it.

I’m not a traitor. I’m loyal to Midas, and I just proved it.

But my smile slowly drops, weighted down, like a hook pulling at my cheeks. All that victory, that pride, it sours in my gut before it even has the chance to settle.

In its place, an awful feeling rises up, like my impulsive act to prove Polly and the other saddles wrong was a mistake.

Regret. That’s regret there, festering in my stomach.

My breath shakes as I look down at myself, eyes settling on my wet hem. I should be proud of myself for standing my ground, that I didn’t waver in my convictions. That I didn’t let Rip trick me into thinking he’s my friend.

I should be gloating that Fourth’s army underestimated me, that their manipulations, their false camaraderie didn’t work. I should be thoroughly content that I just helped my king and solidified whose side I’m on, because that—staying loyal—it’s right.

…Right?

I become a flustered mess in the span of a heartbeat, as a war erupts inside of me. I’ve always known where I stood, and I always stood with Midas. So why the hell do I feel like this?

Shaking my head, I tell myself to stop. What’s done is done. I can’t take it back now, no matter how much I may regret it.

I feel guilty just by thinking that.

With my mind acting like a turbulent, churning storm, I start going through the motions of getting undressed.

With only a thin bit of moonlight coming in the tent, I strip out of my coat, dress, boots, and wet leggings, hanging them up to dry. I try to stoke some life back into the coals, but they’re thoroughly burned out, nothing left of them but cold crumbles. No more warmth or light to give.

It’s because of this, and the lack of lantern light too, that I never noticed him until right now, when his voice jolts across the tent.

“Have a nice walk, Auren?”

A yelp of alarm flies out of my mouth as I whirl around, hand over chest. With wide eyes, I panic, until I notice the shape of the spikes along the shadow’s back.

Funny how the silhouette of a monster seems to calm my racing heart.

“You scared me,” I say shakily, dropping my hand.

“Did I?”

He sits on his pallet, unmoving, his voice strange, like he’s using a different tone with me than he usually does.

Unease slithers over my body.

The sliver of moonlight pouring in across the floor is like a line drawn between us.

He just sits there in the dark, not speaking, not moving. The dim light shines on the scales of his cheekbone, his black eyes only visible from the iridescent gleam in them. A feral cat waiting in the rafters to pounce on the unsuspecting mice.

“Rip?” I question, and I hate that my voice sounds so small, so scared.

He doesn’t reply. I’m thoroughly unnerved, and more than a little frightened of him right now—a contradiction to the relief I felt just moments ago.

Dressed in only my shift, my knees begin to shake, but I don’t know if I’m shivering more because I’m cold or because I’m frightened.

I back away a step, and that’s when he stands up fluidly, with more grace than a male like him should be able to move. I flinch, like a rabbit caught in a snare, but I know that the twine around my neck will only tighten quicker.

My heart thumps hard with palpable threat, my ribbons starting to unravel, as if they’re anticipating attack.

Three steps, and then he’s right in front of me, close enough that I have to tip my head up to look him in the eye. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, too dry, too heavy.

This close, I can feel something brewing beneath his skin, feel it like a wicked coarseness that leaves a tangible sharpness in the air.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment where I’ll finally reap that vicious cruelty that Rip is known to sow.

I can be done with this interlude and finally face the real him. I can hate him and not be confused anymore.

So I lock my knees and put my shoulders back, and I wait for the blow. Wait for the noose to tighten and leave me swinging.

But Rip never does what I think he will.

His hand comes up to grip my neck, like he’s going to strangle me right here in his tent. I flinch when his fingers close around my throat, except he doesn’t squeeze. His touch just rests there, burning into me like a brand.

“I wasn’t supposed to find you on that pirate ship,” he murmurs, voice like rippling water, the fluttering waves slicking against my ears.

I blink in the dark, trying to keep hold of his black eyes, trying not to notice the heat from his hand on my skin.

He’s confused me once again, and I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to do. For a moment, I wonder if he’s getting ready to snap my neck.

I should shove him off, use my ribbons to push him away, remind him that I don’t like to be touched…but I do none of those things, and I’m not entirely sure why.

“You didn’t have to take me with you,” I say, throat bobbing against his touch, defensiveness crawling through my tone.

He strokes a fingertip across my racing pulse. “Yes, I did, Goldfinch.”

And then, Rip leans forward and brushes his lips against mine.

A gasp pulls between my lips, but that just makes me taste him. His air, breathing into me, like inhaling awe.

He doesn’t press harder against my mouth, doesn’t demand. Just that barest of strokes, lip against lip, and then he’s pulling away.

I didn’t realize I’d closed my eyes until my heavy lids are snapping open again. His hand moves from my throat to my jaw, a skimming touch just at the edge.

“You’ll be pleased to know…” he begins quietly, eyes roaming over my face.

I look at him dazedly, trying to keep up with what he just did, trying not to touch my lips that are still tingling. “Know what?” I ask, a cracked voice through the dark.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

He drops his hand, and my body sways toward him before I can catch myself, like I wanted to follow his touch, to get it back.

“We’ll arrive in Fifth Kingdom soon.”

His words are jarring. Ill-fitting inside this confusing, intimate moment.

Something in me droops. “Oh.”

He reaches up and moves a strand of hair off my shoulder, leaving air to brush against the skin like another feather-light kiss. His eyes flick up, but they’re as hard as granite now. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see your king,” he says, face unreadable. “Especially so soon after sending your message to him.”

I rear back, like his words are an open palm slapped across my face. I’m left gaping as Rip turns and walks out of the tent, leaving me in the dark, leaving me reeling.

He knows.

He kissed me.

He knows.

He kissed me.

He knows what I did, and yet…he still kissed me.