Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

I’m sick.

I don’t know if I caught something from the horde of soldiers or if it’s the stress or if it’s simply that my body just can’t take being out in the endless cold anymore. Whatever it is, my brain feels like it’s ready to thump out of my skull.

I haven’t felt sick like this in a long time, but it brings back bad memories of Zakir. I was sick a lot back then—all the children were.

His business of buying us to run his beggar scheme was good for his bottom line, but apparently, not good enough to want to take proper care of us. We just had to suffer through it, because he certainly didn’t give us a day off. He said people were more likely to feel sorry for sick children, anyway.

There were a lot of us, tightly packed together in the cold and sometimes even wet sleeping arrangements, never with enough food, hygiene less than stellar.

I don’t even like to think about the times I had to dig for tossed out leftovers. Garbage. I ate garbage sometimes.

Even then, kids would steal it from you if you tried to stash it away; it didn’t matter how much gunk was gathered on it. No wonder sickness ran rampant.

Still, I hate feeling weaker than I already am. All I can do is sleep it off and hope no one notices that I’m even more vulnerable than before.

I nearly snort. If there’s one thing the commander is aware of, it’s my vulnerabilities. The saddles too, for that matter.

It’s been three days since Rissa set the price for her silence. But in those three days, I haven’t seen Commander Rip once, except for his sleeping silhouette when I sneak out of the tent every morning before dawn.

I’ve tried to go visit the saddles again every night once we stop traveling. Twice I was turned away. Last night, the guards who saw me with Lu were on duty, so they allowed me a short visit, but that was almost worse.

The girls wouldn’t even look at me except to spew their frustrations about my freedom to walk around versus their inability to leave their crowded tent.

At least I was able to confirm that no soldier has tried to use them yet.

I want to keep trying, to break through to them and let them see that I’m not their enemy, but the effort is always so disheartening because it never gets me anywhere.

If anything, they’ve just started hating me more.

Yet they’re not the only reason why I’ve been making it a point to visit. It’s also so that I can continue my search for the messenger hawks.

I make sure to go a different way every time, to continue to map the camp. They set it up nearly the same every single night. It would be easy if this army weren’t so damn big.

But the thought of trekking around in the snow right now and then dealing with the saddles makes me groan in exhaustion.

I’ll give myself the night off and pick back up tomorrow, when it doesn’t feel like the commander’s spikes are stabbing through my head.

Speak of the devil…

The carriage door opens, and I squint over at Rip, his silhouette dusted with the light of dusk.

No armor today, leather coat frosted at the edges, his black hair windswept and his spikes nowhere to be seen.Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

“Does it hurt when you keep those in?” I blurt.

Rip glances down at the arm I’m looking at, like he’s surprised his spikes aren’t out—or maybe that I asked about them. “No.”

“Hmm.” I lick my dry lips and swallow with a twinge of pain but then remember what I really wanted to talk to him about. I pick my head up straighter when I realize I’ve slumped a bit. “I want to know where Midas’s guards are.”

“Do you?” he asks in a gravelly voice, shoulder leaning against the doorframe. “Well, I’d like to know who your closest friends were in Sixth Kingdom.”

I blink at him through stinging eyes, my mind a little slower than normal at processing his words. Even when I do, I’m still confused. “Why do you always ask the strangest questions about me? Why do you want to know that?” My tone is both bewildered and defensive.

“Is it the saddles you’ve been visiting?”

So he knows I’ve visited them. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at that, though I am that he’s allowed it to go on.

A chuff escapes me as I tilt my head down, fingers coming up to rub my burning eyes. “Oh, yeah. They adore me. We braid each other’s hair while trading stories about Midas in bed.”

Great Divine, did I just say that? I must be sicker than I thought.

I hear a rasp of a chuckle. “Interesting.”

My hand drops away, the scraping talons against my skull making my eyes sensitive even in the dim light. “What’s interesting?”

“Interesting that you should attempt to visit them every night when you wouldn’t consider them your friends. Makes one wonder why.”

I bristle, suddenly wishing that we could’ve made it to day four without interacting. I’m just not that lucky, I guess.

“Are you going to block me in this carriage all night, or can I get out? I’m tired.”

Rip’s head tilts to the side, the short spikes along his brow line more pronounced. “Tired? You’re usually chomping at the bit to go eat and visit the saddles.”

“Yeah, well, as you pointed out, they’re not my friends, so I’ll just save myself the trip,” I snap.

This male makes my headache so much worse.

Black eyes narrow as he studies me closely, gaze smoothing over my body from head to toe. “Are you ill?”

“I’m fine. Now, if you don’t mind…” I look pointedly where he’s still blocking the doorway.

I’m surprised when he actually steps aside to let me out. Dusk is still the victor against night, the last of the graying light quickly fading. I take in a deep breath, the fresh air making me feel so much better after being stuck in the stagnant carriage all day.

My teeth begin to chatter, and I band my arms around myself like a shield, trying to hold in a shiver, trying to create a layer of armor against this male. He has a way of making me feel like he’s peeling away my layers, seeing what I want to hide. And right now, I don’t feel well enough to fend him off, to keep up with his battle-minded tactics.

Thankfully, the tent is already set up, erected right beside the carriage. I want to collapse on the pallet under a pile of furs and not come out until my head stops pounding.

I take one step toward it, but my vision suddenly swims, pain lancing through my forehead. I squeeze my eyes shut and stumble, my legs like jelly.

Rip’s hand lashes out lightning-quick, fingers curling around my arm. His catch steadies me, freezes me in place. The disorienting feeling is swept away from my head, like his touch is a chain to an anchor I thought had broken away. I teeter, a boat in the water, reeling as that anchoring grip holds steady, keeping me upright.

A split second later, I realize my mistake—dependent on his hold as I am. Eyes springing open, I whirl, yanking my arm from his grasp.

“Don’t touch me!” I hiss, looking around wildly, my heart nearly beating right out of my chest as I glance at the sky.

A dizzying feeling comes over me again, but I lift my hands in front of me to ward him off.

Rip’s eyes harden like inky steel, his spikes erupting from his sleeves and down his back. They seem to breathe, each sharp curve expanding like ribs.

He glares down at me. “You can barely stand. You are ill.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He takes a step forward, coming into my space, forcing my head to tilt back. “And I said don’t lie until you can do it better,” he replies quietly, his voice an even rumble, a saw dragging through wood. “Go to the tent. I’ll send for the mender.”

I grit my teeth at his order, since that’s obviously what I was doing in the first place. My head hurts too much to think of a retort though, and I can’t breathe correctly with him so close.

Cursing him under my breath, I turn and walk off, keeping my attention on my feet, feeling his eyes on my back until I duck into the tent.

There’s a slight chill in the space since the burning coals haven’t had enough time to heat it up, but I kick my snowy boots off and strip out of my coat before I collapse onto the pallet on the right, burying myself beneath layers of blessed fur.

I feel like I’ve just barely closed my eyes when I feel a hand pressing against my brow. My head swims, and for a moment, I think it’s my mother’s hand, her comforting touch come to say goodnight.

But then I notice the calluses on the palm, the rough grit sliding against my forehead like sandpaper smoothing wood.

It can’t be her—her hands were soft, dainty. Hers was a mother’s caressing touch, not this clinical, unfamiliar graze.

I startle awake, blinking blearily as Hojat comes into focus above me. It takes a second, but once I realize that it’s his hand touching my forehead, blind panic comes roaring up.

In a rush of alarmed horror, I jerk upright, my ribbons straightening out, acting on pure instinct. They shove him away hard, curled edges of satin slamming into his chest with a furor.

With wide, surprised eyes and a grunt from the force of my push, Hojat’s body goes flying back. It happens almost in slow motion, while I watch in horrified shock.

A strangled yelp chokes out of me as his body barely misses hitting the burning hot coals. His momentum keeps him going, my hit far too hard, and I suck in a breath as I watch his trajectory head for the poles of the tent.

A second before he would’ve crashed into them, Rip is there, taking the brunt of the mender’s fall.

The commander manages to catch him, hands on shoulders, where Hojat regains his feet instead of colliding into the tent and taking the whole thing down, probably cracking his head open in the process.

An exhale whooshes out of me.

For a moment, none of us move, none of us speak. With my ribbons flared out on either side of me, the only sound that can be heard are my heaving breaths.

When I manage to calm myself enough to breathe normally, my eyes flick to the tent flaps, where I can see the blackness of night bleeding through the cracks. I must’ve only dozed off for a little while.

But in my panicked overreaction, I just showed my hand—or more accurately, my ribbons.

Hojat steps away from the commander to straighten himself. “Well, you’re a strong one,” he jokes with a nervous laugh that tugs the left side of his scarred mouth in a grimace.

Blearily, my ribbons drop as I lower myself back onto the pallet, shaky legs curled beneath me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” I say, shoving sweaty strands of hair off my face. “I just…I don’t like to be touched. No one is allowed to touch me.”

Pity crosses his face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I find the courage to flick my eyes to Rip. I don’t know what he’s thinking. His expression is far too unreadable, his stare too still. It sets my already racing heart on edge.

Sweat gathers across my brow and back, and I suddenly regret falling asleep beneath all those furs, because I’m no longer cold. I’m sweltering.

And it has everything to do with the way that Rip’s gaze is burning into me.