Gild (The Plated Prisoner, #1)(18)

I’m three steps away when I hear, “Ah, you’re back.”

I freeze, but when my gaze darts over, no one is looking at me, but at Midas who’s striding through the doorway.

Gathering my skirts in my hands, I leap for the archway and sprint down the hallway. Right before Midas’s eyes can find me. I don’t stop running until I pass my bathroom and dressing chambers. I duck into my room, blowing out a breath as I slump against the wall.

I rest my head back for a minute, basking in my successful retreat, while my mind spins. I’m lucky I wasn’t caught.

I stay propped here for a while, my brain soaking in everything I’ve learned. Not just from the spied conversation, but from the bits and pieces I’ve picked up all week during Midas’s war council. It seems even Queen Malina is wary of Midas’s bold attack.

I’m not surprised he didn’t discuss his decisions with her, though. That’s how he operates. Purely by his own agenda and plans. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about him actually—the confidence he possesses. He wasn’t born royal like Malina. He wasn’t groomed to be a monarch. And as harsh as he may be sometimes, he knows how to rule. Highbell needed money, and it needed a strong leader, and it got both the minute Midas sat on the throne.

I blink, realizing that the day has leached out and night has crept in. A shiver travels down my spine, and I rub my arms, willing the tingles away. Bright side: If Midas was going to send for me, he would’ve done it by now.

What little light that existed in my room has faded into shadows that quickly stained everything in darkness. Pushing myself away from the wall, I head to the far end of my room, following the way by memory, until I reach the small table that butts up against the bars.

I blindly feel for the candlestick that I know is there, but instead of my fingers wrapping around the hard base, I come into contact with something warm. Something that moves.

I flinch back in alarm, but too late. The hand flashes forward and grabs my wrist, yanking me forward. My torso tips over the top of the table, my hands shooting out to catch myself on it. The person holding my wrist releases it and instead snatches me by the hair in a fisted grip.

I reach up in a scrabbled panic, trying to tear the hold away on instinct, but whoever is holding me doesn’t release me, no matter how hard I yank.

I start scratching at them mercilessly, hoping to peel their skin into bloody strips so they’ll let go. As soon as I feel my nail draw blood, the person hisses in pain and then slams my head into the bars so hard that I see stars.

I buckle at the knees, my body unsteady and my head pulsing, but the hand with the vicious hold on my hair doesn’t let go. My scalp screams with pain, and I cry out, but no sooner does the whimper of pain fly out of my lips than another hand slaps over my mouth to cut off the noise.

Unfortunately, the hand is also covering my nose, blocking my ability to breathe.

Dazed from the hit to the head and unable to see much with the darkening night, I panic, lashing out to try to fight, my throat constricting and my nostrils flaring with the need to breathe.

And through it all, I can’t help but be shocked that someone besides Midas is touching me.

I haven’t been touched by anyone for as long as I can remember. No one would dare. Aside from fleeting caresses I get from my king, I’ve been so starved of touch that part of me is in too much sensory overload to react.

“Hold her up.”

The order is quiet but firm, completely uncaring about my plight, and my stomach plummets when I recognize the voice.

The queen.

Whoever is holding me wrenches my head forward until my face is squished against the bars, but the palm over my mouth and nose lets go at least. I take in ragged breaths, my neck strained at an awkward angle and the edge of the table digging into my hips as I’m forced to lean over.

I blink as Queen Malina comes forward into my line of vision. With a candle in hand, her face is gripped with fiery shadows, making her pale face glow.

“You think I didn’t see you hiding and listening?” she asks, bringing the candle close enough that the heat licks my cheeks in a burning threat.

I open my mouth to reply, but she snaps at me before I can even find my voice. “Quiet.”

I immediately close my mouth, the hand at my hair pulling my strands again, pain blooming across my head and making my eyes water.

Malina eyes me dispassionately. “The king’s favored,” she spits, like it’s the most hated word in her entire vocabulary. It probably is. “It always bothered me all these years why he chose to Gold-Touch a useless orphan girl and keep here like a trophy on a shelf,” she says, looking around my cage with disdain. “But Midas always did have his obsessions.”

I’m not an obsession. He loves me. She just doesn’t want to admit it.

As if she can see the defiance in my face, she laughs. “You think you have his heart?” she asks, her tone a mix of mock pity as she leans down so that we’re eye-to-eye. She’s so close that I can feel her breath coming from between her colorless lips. “Oh dear, you’re nothing but a dog he keeps kenneled. A prize that he likes to show off to make himself seem more interesting.”

It’s a lie. I know this, but I’m not thick-skinned enough to face her spewing words of hate and jealousy and not be affected. So her declaration, along with the pounding sharp pain at my scalp makes even more tears build in my eyes until one dives onto my cheek.