Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1) - Raven Kennedy Page 0,43

any sort of line except to simply help me undress.

When the fabric falls at my feet, Midas looks at my eyes in the reflection of the mirror for a moment, before taking my hand once more and leading me into the tub. One leg over, then the next, and I sit down, the hot water shoulder-deep, a few scattered bubbles mingling with the oil that seeps into my skin.

I sigh.

Midas sits on a stool beside the tub with a cloth in his hand, dipping it in the water before his eyes come back up to look at me.

“May I?”

I don’t answer or nod, but I tip my chin up slightly, and that’s invitation enough. He reaches forward and gently begins to dab at the wound, the sting making me flinch.

“I’m sorry.”

His words are gentle but steady—same as the swipes against my throat.

“For what part?” I ask, my voice croaky from disuse or emotion. Maybe both.

The cloth is dipped again and again, new warm water to wash away the dried blood, to clean the cut.

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

My brows rise at his admission, even as indignant anger rises up, shouldering past the numbness I’ve felt for the last few hours.

“The slice against my throat is the least of them,” I reply, and I mean it.

I pull away from his ministrations and lie all the way back, dipping my head and hair beneath the water. With eyes closed, I let it envelop me, let it press into my skin, let the warmth soothe my body like I wish it could soothe my aching heart.

When I sit back up, I take a gulping breath and rest my head against the back of the tub, my eyes landing on Midas. I don’t cover up the hurt and anger there, don’t mask it from him.

Midas nods, like he accepts what I’m silently telling him.

“I know,” he says again, just like he did in the bedroom. “I know what you’re thinking.”

What I’m thinking isn’t nearly as bad as what I’m feeling, but I don’t say that.

“I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it,” I tell him, my tone accusatory. “And as nervous as I was, as gutted, some part of me thought that you’d have a plan. That you wouldn’t go through with it.”

My breaths come quicker, the water line rising and lowering over my chest. My ribbons swim in the water, pulling tighter around me once more, like they’re trying to keep me from cracking to pieces.

“I trusted you, Midas. I trust us. After all these years, after all I’ve done—”

Midas grabs one of my hands, squeezing it between his, his face earnest. “I was never going to let him touch you.”

I frown, my thoughts cut short. “What?”

“Just listen,” he tells me. “I knew Fulke coveted you. Hell, everyone knew. He was a fool. He dared to ask for what was mine.”

I blink, remembering the morning when Fulke asked for me, when they struck their deal.

“You set him up for it.”

Midas tilts his head. “Did I? Is that what you think?”

My lips turn down, confusion swimming through me, making my thoughts murky. “I don’t understand.”

Midas hooks his foot around the leg of the stool to move it closer, his hands still holding onto mine, the water droplets collecting on his palms.

“Fulke is a flesh trader.”

Shock courses through me. “What?”

Midas nods solemnly. “I heard rumors, but I found out for sure months ago. When I was able to confirm it, I knew something needed to be done.”

I try to keep up with his words, try to make the connections. “So you planned how to take him out? How to kill him?”

Midas’s lips press together at my damning tone. “Would you rather I let him continue to sell his own people for profit?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Auren, I’m a king, and kings have to make hard decisions. When it became clear to me that Fulke was no longer a viable ally, not even a good person, I decided to act.”

“By setting him up. Tricking him. By sending his men into a meaningless slaughter,” I accuse. “How many of his soldiers died, Midas?”

“As few as possible, just enough to make it work.”

I scoff. “As if that makes it any better!”

“Better a man die with honor on a battlefield than a child be sold to slavery. Wouldn’t you agree, Auren?”

A punch.

That’s what it is. His words punch into my stomach, against my heart, up my throat. He shreds me inside with a sentence, memories threatening to