Are you going to do as you’re told? he’s really saying.
What would you do if I didn’t? my gaze says.
Seconds drag by of this public power play.
Several chairs down, I swear I can feel a rumbling laugh, though it’s silent inside a black-clad chest. My own seems to puff up a little bit more.
Midas yanks the goblet away from me and looks down the table with an amused look. “Apologies, I’m often distracted by my favored,” he says to excuse
away our exchange, making a few people laugh politely.
His eyes move to the windows behind us, and I see the infuriated panic in the tightening of his lips as he realizes that night is about to descend. He has minutes, maybe even seconds. My power is about to go dormant, and his temper is burgeoning.
“Understandable. She is a beauty,” Keon says, shooting me a wink, but everyone is wondering. Doubting. Not quite understanding. For the first time, the pet has turned on her master, and the master doesn’t like seeing fangs bared that he thought he’d muzzled.
Midas leans in, not near enough to touch my skin, of course. He’s far too meticulous for that. “Careful, Precious,” he whispers, voice dropped down to a breath.
My rebellion falters beneath his smile pitched in threat. Midas looks at me to imbue his warning, though he pulls away like a king who just whispered intimate secrets to his favored saddle.
Digby. I have to think of Digby.
Crunching up my pride like torn paper in a fist, I discreetly tug off my glove in my lap. Lifting back up, I pretend to reach for a serving spoon, thankful for the icicle centerpiece that juts up in front of me. With intent attention, I time it precisely so that as soon as Midas sets his goblet down, I drag my bare palm against the glass tabletop right beside it and let my power unleash.
Gold erupts like a gushing wound bleeding across the table.
Several gasps ring out as the liquid spreads from beneath Midas’s goblet and spills into the entire length of the table like reaching floodwaters. It swallows the glass in its shiny pall, dripping down the sides and curling down the edges to spread beneath. Within moments, the entire table is gilded, the centerpiece of jagged icicles now reaching up like clawed fingers of golden greed.
Midas’s shoulders noticeably relax, and across from him, Queen Kaila claps. “How exquisite, King Midas,” she says with a grin, her tanned fingers running over the polished metal.
Keon laughs jovially. “Indeed. Why go for the goblet when you can gild the whole table?”
Midas gives a bared-teeth smile. “Exactly what I was thinking.” His malignant attention settles on my face, scraping it raw. “Did you enjoy that, Precious?”
“I did.”
I really, really did.
He turns back to his food, and I pull my glove back on, my gold-slicked palm sticking to the inside of the fabric. Taking care to stay composed, I keep my expression shuttered while my insides riot.
Stupid. That was a stupid, foolish risk I shouldn’t have taken. My pride is not worth Digby’s life.
But damn, it felt good to make him squirm.
A few minutes later, the sun dips away, and the dying day gives in. With the descent of night, I feel my power empty out of me. The claggy gold remnants on my hand soak back into my skin, and I let out a ragged, tired breath. Too much power too fast has left me lightheaded, and I’m clearly still recovering from my drain.
Everyone is talking around me, Queen Kaila fawning over the golden table while the others continue to eat and make small talk. Somehow, I manage to eat my tacky, cold porridge and wash it away from the roof of my mouth with a gulp of water.
AlI I want to do is run back to my room and escape to the balcony, to breathe in the crisp air, far away from prying eyes and courtly conversation. Midas’s presence beside me is the bow of a ship, looming ever closer, no matter how fast I try to swim.
When I bite into some syrupy fruits, I have the sudden urge to cry. But that wouldn’t do. It’s odd enough that I’m sitting here like a spectacle at a royal dinner. If I start weeping into my dinner bowl, I’ll be the talk of the court. But I hate this. Hate him. Gritting my teeth, I tell myself to pull it together, to not let him get to me.
Why is it that a man can make you feel like nothing, when you have given him everything?
Suddenly, like a whisper in my ear, I feel the faintest breeze of magic brush against my cheek. So subtle, like dipping a single fingertip into still water. Rather than the nauseating power he usually gives off, this is the balm of a cool caress that I’ve grown accustomed to when he’s in his spiked form.
At the stroke of his essence, I’m able to let out a normal breath. My throat bobs, swallowing down the regret and worry, and I grasp that composure I need. Just like that, Slade has calmed me, grounded me on stable earth.
Since I can’t look at him, I let my eyes lift to Fake Rip again instead, his slitted helmet pointing straight ahead, hands clasped in front of him. Who would I find if I pulled off that dark metal that hides his face? What other secrets does King Slade Ravinger have?