Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1) - Raven Kennedy Page 0,105

fell into the commander’s hand like a shiny bargaining chip.

My dread churns so thick in my stomach that I worry I’m going to be sick. When a pair of black boots appears in my line of vision where I’m still braced awkwardly on the ground, all I can do is blink, my body frozen there in the snow.

This is bad. Very, very bad.

The commander’s voice grates down my back as sharp as his spikes. “Well, this is very...interesting.”

My throat bobs with a dry swallow, and then my eyes lift up where the commander stands looming over me. Behind him, the army begins to move, though I don’t watch them. I’m too focused on him. Because his helmet is off, tucked under his arm, and I can see his face for the very first time.

He has no horns. No glowing, murderous eyes. Not even a terrifying scar is ripped down his cheek.

No, all of those things were just nightmarish gossip, the imagining of something demonic. Orea is probably in too much denial to face the truth, too separated from our land’s long-ago history, too afraid to think that we have full-blooded fae in our midst. They use King Rot’s power as the excuse, they believe falsehoods, spread misinformation, or discard it all as rumors.

But Commander Rip isn’t a demon, and he hasn’t been twisted by Ravinger’s magic. He’s a presence all his own, and I can’t help but stare at him, taking in every detail.

His irises are black. As black as midnight shrouding the world, starless, moonless, no differentiating between iris and pupil. Thick, arched black eyebrows are set above those desolate eyes, making his expression fierce and grim.

Above the hairline of each eyebrow is a line of tiny, very short spikes. The same black as the spikes on his back and arms, though these ones don’t curve, look slightly more blunted at the tips, and are only about a centimeter tall.

His nose is strong and straight, his teeth are bright white, showing a hint of slightly sharp and elongated canines. Along his temples and curving down his cheekbones, he has a subtle dusting of gray, nearly iridescent scales, like the scales of the lizards that live in the Ash Dunes.

He has thick black hair, a rough black beard over pale skin, and a strong square jaw—a jaw that leads up to subtly pointed ears. And all of this on a body standing six and a half feet tall, thick with muscles and an aura ripe with menace.

He’s terrifying. He’s ethereal. He’s so very, very fae.

The rest of Orea might have forgotten what true fae look and feel like, might like to pretend that all we have left of the fae is what little magic that still passes down in bloodlines, but the commander’s presence disproves that.

Orea feels betrayed by the fae, but fear is the predominant emotion. It’s why only those with magic are allowed to rule. It’s why Queen Malina had to give up control of her throne and marry Midas for his magical power. Because if the fae ever do come back to finish what they started, we need rulers who can protect their kingdoms.

I wonder if King Ravinger knows exactly what kind of beast he has on his leash. I wonder if he can feel the commander’s power brimming beneath the surface, sense his suffocating atmosphere.

I’m vulnerable here at his feet, with the commander’s eyes locked on my weak ribbons that are still trying to help hold me up. His unwanted attention makes my heart gallop.

With a mental push, I’m somehow able to collect the shattered pieces of my strength and force myself to my feet. As soon as I stand, my loose ribbons hang limp and dull behind me in the snow, no strength left to even wrap themselves around me.

The commander’s head cocks in an animalistic way as he regards me with a slow drag of his eyes from bottom to top, making the sheen of the barely-there scales over his cheekbones ripple in the gray dawn.

When his gaze finally lifts to my face, my wary gold eyes get caught by his intense black ones.

The pirate ships pull further away, the army continues to move, but the commander and I continue to stand there, watching each other.

From this close, I can see flakes of snow getting caught on his thick black lashes. I can see the polished gleam of the spikes over his brow. I wouldn’t call him handsome, he’s far too wicked looking for