Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1)(71)

Silence ticks by. The wind is the only thing that moves or makes noise. Everyone else watches, saddles, pirates, soldiers. Every eye trained on the commander and captain, waiting to see what will happen.

Above us, the night carries on, as bleak and dark as ever. It makes me wonder if it will ever ebb or if I’m doomed to be stuck in these bleak shadows forever, to go from one bad circumstance to a worse one.

Finally, Captain Fane nods. “Alright, then. A meal is in order, I think. I always say an agreement is best made over wine and food.”

The commander tips his head and lifts an arm. “Then lead the way, Captain, and you can tell me all about what transpired this night. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to talk about.”

Captain Fane grins. “Aye. When Midas finds out that you and your king have his men and his whores, he’s going to lose his head.”

A dark, gravelly chuckle comes from behind the dark helmet, sending chills down my arms. “I’m counting on it, Captain.”





Chapter Thirty-Four





I’ve seen foxes in a henhouse before. Bursting in on the poor birds, stalking them when they were just trying to do their job and lay their eggs. The foxes taunted them, tried to make them fly. I’ve seen an entire coop get destroyed in an explosion of feathers and noise and fear.

This dinner is a lot like that.

The Red Raids are the foxes, taunting and groping, trying to see if they can make one of the saddles attempt to fly away in a panic.

But this dinner doesn’t just have foxes. We have wolves too.

Commander Rip’s twelve soldiers take up an entire bench in the dining room. They sit, squeezed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, dark and looming and entirely too big for the space. They’ve taken off their helmets to eat, but they’re quiet. Watchful. Stalking wolves amidst the rabble.

“Not you.”

I get stopped by the guard dog before I can go into the dining room, my hands full with two pitchers of wine.

“What?”

He looks to Rissa behind me and tips his head. “You. Take the pitchers in for her.”

Rissa arches a blonde brow. “I’m already carrying this tray,” she points out.

“Do I look like I give a shit? I said take them.”

Rissa’s lips press together, but she flicks her eyes to me and gestures to the tray full of hard biscuits. “Stack them on.”

I pile the biscuits on one side as best I can, and then set the pitchers on top. As soon as she has it all, her load considerably heavier, Rissa sweeps past us, heading into the dining room where the rest of the saddles are already serving, some of them pulled onto laps, enduring hands slipping up skirts.

I stand awkwardly outside the doorway, shooting a glance at the pirate. “What am I supposed to do?”

My guard dog leans against the outside wall and pulls out his knife, edging the blade beneath his nails to clean them. “Don’t know. Cap’n just said you weren’t allowed in there while Fourth’s men are here.”

Realization dawns like a cold morning. “The captain doesn’t want the commander to see me.”

The pirate just smirks, continuing to clean his disgusting nails.

I look into the brightly lit room, the ship oddly quiet at its continuous standstill. From my vantage point, I can see Fourth’s soldiers at the bench closest to the door. Captain Fane and Commander Rip are at the front of the room, sitting at a small, two-person table where they can look out at the long benches before them, their backs facing me.

The commander has his helmet off, but at this angle, I’m unable to see his face. I can rule out the horns, though. Instead, all I see is thick, short black hair on top of his head.

“I’ll just go grab more stuff from the kitchens,” I mumble, turning to walk away.

Unfortunately, my guard dog follows, so I don’t get a chance to slip away, not that I was expecting anything to be that easy.

When I make it back to the galley, I’m barely through the door when something comes flying at my face. I duck, hearing the splat of a rag landing on the wall where my face just was.

“Get to cleaning,” Cook barks from the other end of the room.

I suppress a sigh before pulling off my one remaining glove and slipping it into my dress pocket. I pick up the wet rag and start scrubbing the long countertop, surreptitiously working on my ribbons all the while.

Finally, with my back hunched over and sweat gathering at my neck, I get a knot undone. My heart races at the small but worthy victory. I chance a look over my shoulder, but the two pirates aren’t looking at my back. Cook is too busy eating his meal alone in the corner, and my guard dog is now picking at his teeth with the same knife he cleaned his nails with.

Head facing forward again, I continue to scrub, continue to unknot. Persistence. It just takes persistence.

I’m almost through scouring the place when Polly comes in, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shiny. “They want more ale,” she says dully, her tone beaten flat like overworked dough.

“What do I look like, a serving wench?” Cook barks at her. “Go fucking get it, then.”

Polly looks at a loss, so I quickly straighten up and toss the rag down. “It’s over here,” I tell her, leading the way.

She follows me to the pantry where I show her the tankard and the last remaining pitchers. I feel her gaze on me, the questions brimming as she glances at me from the corner of her eyes. “Can you use those things? To hurt them? To escape?” Her question is no more than a hum, secrets spoken with barely a breath, but I know what she means.