Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

My heart leaps into my throat. The soldiers all go still, the mood gone from mocking to uneasy in a single second.

I find the source of the voice, gaze jumping to the figure on the other side of the fire. Commander Rip is standing there, arms loose at his sides, spikes jutting from the middle of his forearms like curved fangs in a wolf’s mouth.

For all his easy, relaxed posture he seems to import, there’s menace rising off him like steam.NôvelDrama.Org copyrighted © content.

He looks so different from when I left the tent this morning. All traces of the mellowed, softened look that he had while he slept is gone. Right now, that recollection is so foreign, so ill-fitting, that I doubt whether he really looked like that to begin with. How could I think for a single second that this male was anything but sinister?

In the dappled gray lighting of an almost-dawn, Rip is formidable. The last remnants of night cling to his jet-black hair, to his depthless eyes, the shadows of otherworldliness splashed across his cheeks.

His is a presence meant to chill, to frighten. To take one look and want to run the other way, and I must not be the only one who thinks that, because the soldiers go tense, as if they want to flee.

He’s wearing the same black leather outfit as before, the same contorted branch sword hilt hanging at the belt on his waist. Simple soldier’s clothes that do nothing to hide the threat beneath. A hush weighs over everyone—even Keg falls quiet.

I’m so focused on Rip that I don’t even notice the soldier with him until they both begin walking forward. A foot taller than the commander, bulky chest, mean eyes, pierced lip, long brown hair. The soldier who approached me when I was snooping around the carts. 

Great.

No wonder he’s such an observant asshole. It looks like he’s Rip’s right-hand man.

The two of them stop in front of the line of soldiers, homing in on a pair in particular. “Osrik,” Commander Rip says, his tone gruff. “I think these men said something about wanting lessons.”

“I heard that too, Commander,” Osrik replies, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips.

The two soldiers shift on their feet. One of them seems to have gone pale.  

Rip stares at them without a hint of emotion. The edge in his eyes is sharp enough to cut glass. “Go ahead and teach them one, Captain Osrik.”

Osrik’s smile is not a nice one. “Gladly.”

Both soldiers blanch, one of them swallowing hard enough that I can hear it from where I stand. “Let’s go.” Osrik turns and the soldiers follow after him, everyone watching them go, including me.

Well, everyone except…

“Come, Auren.”

I startle, Commander Rip suddenly right beside me.

“Where?” I ask warily.

“The carriage,” he answers. I don’t know which I’m more surprised by, the destination, or the fact that he actually answered me.

“Ho, Commander, you want a cup?” Keg asks, breaking the stare-off I didn’t realize I was having with Rip.

The commander shakes his head. “Not right now.” Black eyes flick back to me, and he lifts his hand, motioning for me to walk.

I start forward, and Rip matches my stride. Instead of leading me, he walks on my left, not going faster or slower, our steps in sync. I’m all too cognizant of the sharp tips of his spikes on his arms, careful not to get too close. Every time his arm swings, I tuck mine in a little bit closer to my body.

Rip notices, and a black brow arches up at me. “Nervous?”

“Careful,” I correct, looking straight ahead.

As we walk, I note that the camp is roused now, nearly all of the tents already broken down, horses fed and packed, the army readying to get back into formation for another long day of marching.

The other soldiers, no matter their age or bulk, seem to scatter out of our way when they see Rip coming. Every single one of them tilts their head in respect.

I dart a look at him out of the corner of my eye. “What will you and Osrik do to them?”

“Who?”

“Those two soldiers.”

He shrugs, shoulder lifting. “Don’t be concerned about them.”

My teeth grind ever so slightly. “Their comments were directed at me, so I am concerned. Besides, you told me that you trust your soldiers implicitly.”

“I do.”

I shake my head with a frustrated sigh. “You can’t claim to trust your soldiers and then turn around and punish or kill them for a few passing comments spoken to a prisoner.”

Rip stops walking suddenly, making me draw up short. We turn at the same time, facing each other amidst the busy camp. The snow has turned to slosh at our feet, the air cloying with newly doused fires and a heavy, wet chill that sticks to my lungs.

The commander studies me with an unreadable expression. “You’re defending them?”

I bristle at his tone. I don’t like that it’s incredulous, that he thinks me so petty.

“I’m not defending their crude remarks. But you’re the self-proclaimed monster, not me. I don’t want their punishment on my conscience,” I say, because I have enough blood on my hands. I don’t need to add more. “If you need to flex your authority or prove me right about your earlier ‘implicit trust’ statement, leave me out of it. You can hardly blame your soldiers for speaking ill of me. I’m the enemy. Your prisoner,” I remind him.

For the life of me, I can’t think of why I’m reminding him of that. Seems like a bad idea, to be honest. And yet, there’s just something about this male that stokes my anger.

For so long, I’ve swallowed my own tongue. I’ve tamped down every emotion, careful to ride every tide in the hopes that I don’t become submerged. So these reactions, these unbridled retorts, surprise even me. I have no idea where it’s coming from, but it leaves me feeling flustered.

“Allow me to set some things straight,” Rip says, cutting off my train of thought. “I’m not having those soldiers punished, least of all killed. Osrik will be doing exactly what was stated—he’ll be teaching them a lesson.”

“And what does this lesson include?”

“Latrine duty, mostly. Until they remember how to behave as befitting of a royal soldier serving in King Ravinger’s army.”

I blink at him. “Oh.” That’s not what I was expecting.

Our little chat is going uninterrupted, but not unobserved. All of the passing soldiers give us a wide berth, but I feel them darting glances our way, though no one gets too close. We’re in an untouchable circle, like one of the old fairy rings that used to dot across Orea long ago.

“Let me make one last thing clear,” Rip says, taking a step toward me. I’ve noticed that this is a tactic of his. To unnerve me, intimidate me with his nearness. I want to back up, but I also don’t want to give him the satisfaction. So instead, I plant my feet and tip up my chin.

“Just because those men acted crude and discordant, does not mean I don’t trust them. What I said before is still true. They would not touch a single hair on your head, unless I ordered them to. You are safe from every single soldier here.” He pauses, making sure I take in what he’s saying. “Unfortunately, basic manners are not included in that. Fortunately, Osrik is well-versed in setting untoward behavior straight.”

I think of the man’s scowl and massive size. “I’ll bet he is.”

Rip cuts me a look. “Now that we have that out of the way and your conscience has been spared of guilt, would you like to tell me why Osrik reported to me this morning that you were acting suspicious last night?”

Shit.

“I was not acting suspicious,” I deny. “I was simply walking around the camp. Something you allowed me to do, since I have no guard or chains. I’m surrounded by these soldiers you trust so much in a frozen wasteland that you promised to track me down in if I should be stupid enough to try to leave.”

“Hmm,” he says, not commenting on my snide tone. His eyes flick down to my coat. “And your ribs? My mender reported that you did not allow him to examine you.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you insist on lying, at least be better at it.”

He’s got it wrong there. I am fine, and I’m also excellent at lying. After all, I’ve been lying to myself for years. Pretty lies cover up a lot of ugly truths.

“My ribs are fine, but why would you care either way?” I snap.  

Maybe I speak to him like this because it’s my way of feeling like I hold some power between us. My attitude is a brick façade over crumbling plaster vulnerabilities.

“Since you don’t like lies, let’s speak honestly, Commander Rip,” I say with a challenging taunt. “I know what you are, and I also know what I am: a pawn to hold for ransom. Something to dangle in front of King Midas.”

“True,” Rip replies coldly, making my lips press together in a hard line. “Still, it would be rude of me to return Midas’s pet in poor condition.”

A tic jumps in my jaw.

Pet. Saddle. Whore. I am so incredibly tired of the brands people attach to me.

“I’m not his pet. I’m his favored.”

Commander Rip makes a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “A different word for the same connotation.”

I open my mouth in a retort, but Rip holds up a hand to stop me. “This talk of Midas bores me.”

“Good. I don’t want to talk to you anyway,” I retort.

He releases a biting smile, sure to show a hint of fang. “I have a feeling you’ll be changing your mind very soon, Goldfinch.”

My spine stiffens. There’s an underlying threat in those words, but I can’t for the life of me guess what he means.

“Get to the carriage,” he says, his demeanor rigid, settling into his commander role seamlessly. “We move out in ten, and we won’t be stopping until dusk. I suggest you visit the latrine before we depart, or it’s sure to be a very uncomfortable day for you.”

“I want to see the saddles and the guards,” I reply, completely ignoring his order.

He rests a hand on the wooden hilt of his sword and leans in to my face, so close that I nearly swallow my tongue. I lean back, feeling like a rabbit being held by the scruff of its neck.

“If you want something, you’re going to have to earn it.”

Rip turns on his boots and leaves, soldiers moving out of his path as he stalks away, while I’m left to stare after him.

I don’t know what earning consists of, but I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.