Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1) - Raven Kennedy Page 0,36

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.”

My neck feels as stiff as stone, but I manage to shake my head. “No.”

I swear, my voice echoes. Ridiculous, since there are two hundred people here and the musicians are still playing—albeit drunkenly. But my single, soft spoken word? It might as well have been the rumble of an avalanche, because it makes everyone go quiet and strain to listen, to decipher the disturbance that ripples through the air.

“What? What did you say?” King Fulke asks, all good humor gone from his face. Now, his dark eyes shine with disbelief and outrage.

I back up a step and shake my head, my resolve unwavering even as my fear grows. “I’m the king’s favored,” I say, lifting my chin and speaking with a strong tone that doesn’t match with