Gild (The Plated Prisoner, #1)(28)

Let them talk.

Let them look.

Fulke gets caught up in a discussion with Midas and a few other men as they discuss new trade routes to be established from Fourth Kingdom. About new investment opportunities with the Blackroot Mines. As if standing in a solid gold ballroom isn’t enough.

The longer I’m made to sit on the floor, the more my knees and calves begin to ache. I try to shift to relieve some of the pressure, allowing some of the blood to rush back into my sore, scrunched limbs.

I tense when Fulke’s hand comes down on my head. A master petting his dog. “Speaking of new commodities,” Fulke begins, his fingers stroking through my hair, eyes gleaming. “Just a dozen strands of her hair must be worth a month’s wages for a peasant.”

“Hmm,” Midas says noncommittally, even as his eyes watch the way Fulke touches me. There’s possessiveness in his gaze, but he doesn’t step in. He doesn’t stop this.

I can feel a sharp, wet crackle burn in my eyes like a spitting wick, some invisible flame flickering in the center of my irises as tears threaten to pool like liquid fire.

And there, in the corner of a ten-year-long foundation of reliance and trust, a break appears. Like a shallow, jagged chip knocked into glass, a tiny fissure like spider’s silk spreads up an inch.

Rissa stops dancing long enough to perch beside Fulke, her deft fingers kneading into his shoulders, her legs draped over the arm of the throne in a graceful stretch.

While he talks, she expertly continues her sensual touches, from shoulders to chest, down to his abdomen and the waist of his pants. She brushes against his hardening length with a teasing smirk, catching the eyes of other men across the room who watch with hunger. A show for more than just the benefit of the king beneath her.

And I realize right then, that this woman, this saddle, holds power. Not the magic of kings and queens, but a different sort of power—one of control. She holds these men in the palm of her attentive hands, directing their desires, driving their emotions, feeding their fantasies.

In all my time as the royal saddle, I’ve never done anything close to that, never learned how. I haven’t needed to, since I’ve never been shared. Next to her, I probably look like the worst saddle ever, sitting here straight-backed, my hands tucked into my lap, cringing every time Fulke’s leg touches my shoulder or his hand comes down to pet me again.

“You’re really good at that,” I murmur, low enough that no one else can hear.

“I’m a saddle,” Rissa replies, as if that answers everything. I guess it does.

“I think we’ll retire now, pet,” Fulke says, snagging my attention to his face, his eyes cast down into the line of my cleavage. “Up. I want to be buried in your golden cunt this hour, since Midas insists on taking you back before dawn.”

I’m wrenched up by the arms, the blood in my cramped legs rushing back through my limbs as I stand. “You go on, girl,” he orders Rissa. “I have no need of you tonight.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she says with a pretty dip of her head before she turns and gracefully glides away, toward the group of men who are still watching her.

Fulke turns to Midas, one hand still on my arm. “I bid you goodnight,” he says with a smirk. “I’m eager to have her to myself.”

King Midas tips his head at Fulke, though his brown eyes flick to me. “Enjoy.”

That’s all he says. Like I’m a wine or pastry, set out for King Fulke to enjoy. I turn my head away from him, too hurt to look at him anymore. That spider crack spreads another inch higher.

A few of his guards close in around us as Fulke leads us down the stairs of the dais, his escorts the only separation between me and the chortling crowd as they begin to hoot and holler out lewd things to us.

“Ride the golden saddle good, sire!”

“Fuck the gold right outta her!”

My teeth snap together at the continued vulgarity. My ribbons itch to lash out at them, to sharpen their edges and slice across their sneering mouths. When King Fulke decides to egg on the audience by releasing my arm to slap my ass, the ends curl around my ribs like clenched fists.

I have to be strong.

I have to.

Except...just his touch on my backside is enough to make me cringe. How am I supposed to allow him to touch any other part of me? How am I supposed to go through with this?

Souvenir.

Sit pretty.

Behave.

Trust him.

And suddenly, right there in the middle of the ballroom amidst the mocking revelers, I decide that I won’t.





Chapter Twelve





I don’t want this man to touch me. I don’t care if he is a king. I don’t care if my king traded me to Fulke for the night, or if he won a battle because of it. I don’t want this, and I’m not going to just lie down and take it. I’m not going to behave. This...Midas can’t ask this of me. Can’t demand it.

I come to a stop right before we reach the gleaming doors.

King Fulke and his guards don’t even notice for a moment. They’re too caught up in the celebration. In the excitement.

When they start to walk toward the doorway, the five men seem to realize I’m not moving with them anymore, and they all look behind them where I’m standing a few paces back. The king is the last to turn but the first to speak. His bushy gray brows pull together. “Come, pet.”