Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1)(75)

“Performance,” Rissa murmurs beside me, so low that I almost don’t hear her. A reminder to play a part. To slip into an act, to keep my real self separate from the horrors and closed off inside me, where he can’t reach. Perform. Just perform so we can get through this.

Her low murmur of encouragement is enough to make me stop shaking. To take a full breath. I’m grateful for it, for the way it grounds me and reminds me that I’m not alone, even though I wish she’d been spared of this.

“Captain, your cabin has quite an...amass of belongings,” Rissa says, bringing out her easy, sultry voice. It’s her attempt to lessen the tension, to set the tone of this encounter. Everything she does, from her voice to her movements, is calculated. Purposeful.

Captain Fane ignores her comment as he tosses off his furs over the desk and sets down his flask. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to play long,” he says, eyeing her body. “Strip and get on the bed.”

I see Rissa’s throat bob, but she doesn’t balk. “Of course, Captain,” she purrs.

Calm, collected, sensual. She’s performing as the embodiment of desire.

Walking over to the bed, she slowly strips with gracefulness and provocative ease. As the captain watches her, I watch him. I see his carnal hunger spike, see him lick his lips.

Rissa doesn’t belong here, on this stained bed, in a room that reeks of alcohol, with maps stuck to the walls with old wax. She’s all soft skin and beauty and poise, and this place is dingy and harsh, with no admiration for her level of worth.

As soon as her nimble fingers release the last button and her dress falls, she climbs onto the bed and waits expectantly for his next order, her blonde hair lying prettily against her skin as she rests on her ankles.

I’ve seen her naked hundreds of times with Midas of course, so I’m used to it, but for a moment, Captain Fane is entranced.

Then he pounces, making it across the room in five long strides.

He’s on her in an instant, crowding over her on the bed. But just when I think he’s going to kiss her, he grabs her by the hair instead and spins her around.

She yelps in surprise as she’s placed on her knees, but the noise is smothered out when he presses her face into the mattress.

My heart starts to race, but Rissa tries to recover, tries to meet him on the battlefield and redirect the act. She turns her head, cheek to pillow, back arched, while groping hands squeeze her bared bottom, pinching her pink. “Oh, Captain, I do like a man who knows how to take charge,” she says in an admiring husky tone.

“Quiet,” he snaps.

Not bothering to remove his tunic, he undoes his belt and loosens his leather pants until they drop to his knees where he’s kneeling behind her. Without warning, he roughly thrusts himself into her.

Hand still fisted in her hair, he moves in and out quickly, like the harsh rap of a hammer. Somehow, Rissa doesn’t flinch or shirk. Instead, she manages to arch back, to pretend, to move with him. She lifts her head up from the pillow and braces her hands on the mattress, continuing to play the part.

But when she lets out a moan to appease him, Captain Fane’s mouth twists down, his eyes flash. He jerks her hair and then releases it to wrap his hand around her mouth instead, cutting the noise off. And it becomes apparent then—he’s not interested in her having pleasure, not even pretending to.

He reaches up the length of her body, his fingers curling around her jaw. When a strangled breath escapes her, his hold on her mouth tightens. “I said stay fucking quiet,” he snaps, the thrusts never slowing.

I’m frozen at the door, my back pressed against it like I’m stuck to the wood, ribbons writhing against endless knots.

While darkness retreats outside, it seems to grow in here. The captain uses her, making everything feel dirty, cruel. At least with Midas, even with my constant simmer of jealousy, the act never made me cringe, never made me hurt for them.

But I hurt for Rissa now.

Captain Fane has lost his entranced look, lost his appreciative gaze. With his teeth gritted and hairy body jerking, all Rissa can do is hold on and stay quiet. But he tries to make her slip up, tries to bring the sounds out so that he can hurt her even more.

Every time a noise slips out of her, even when it’s just a shaken breath, he gets rougher, faster, meaner. Until her blue eyes find me, tears brimming over with the brutality of it all.

She might be a saddle, but she’s a royal saddle. And say what you will about Midas, but he’s not a brute. He doesn’t abuse his saddles. Uses them for his pleasure, sure, but he doesn’t get off on violence.

Her pained, teary face kills me, makes my own eyes burn. I can’t stand to keep watching, standing idly by.

“Captain…” I say, taking a step forward. “You’re hurting her.”

He casts a dark look over his shoulder at me, blond hair in greasy tendrils that hang down to his ears. “Yeah, and you’re next, fuck puppet.”

Fear lodges in my stomach like a stone. It scratches all the way around as it rolls, making me go raw. But when he slams into Rissa so hard that her head smacks against the headboard, I find myself taking two more steps, find myself speaking again. “Stop it.”

Surprise crosses both of their faces at my daring. But the captain’s expression is replaced with his promise of punishment—the same one he gave me before.