Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1) - Raven Kennedy Page 0,95

back of the ship from ceiling to floor, revealing a sea of shadowed snow beyond. Outside, the sky is lightening ever so slightly. This incessant night finally beginning to ebb away.

To the left is a desk, littered with papers and maps. Barrels and stacked trunks are shoved against walls, each of them closed tight, keeping whatever is inside hidden from view. Some are being used as tables, and stuck on top, the weeping of the candle’s tears has overflowed, hardened wax molded against its pillar in frozen trickles.

To the right, at the space where I don’t want to look, is the bed. It lies in wait, shaded partially by the heavy red drapery covering the corners of the posts. The blankets are rumpled, several of the pillows forgotten on the floor, and I really hope the stain on the sheets is ale.

Rissa and I stand by warily as the captain walks to his desk and removes his hat. He rips the red band from around his neck and tosses that too, before picking up a silver flask and tipping it back into his mouth.

His eyes watch us as he takes sloppy gulps. My body begins to shake, like the needles of a Pitching Pine before they’re ripped from their branches and plunge into the ground like stakes.

“Performance,” Rissa murmurs beside me, so low that I almost don’t hear her. A reminder to play a part. To slip into an act, to keep my real self separate from the horrors and closed off inside me, where he can’t reach. Perform. Just perform so we can get through this.

Her low murmur of encouragement is enough to make me stop shaking. To take a full breath. I’m grateful for it, for the way it grounds me and reminds me that I’m not alone, even though I wish she’d been spared of this.

“Captain, your cabin has quite an...amass of belongings,” Rissa says, bringing out her easy, sultry voice. It’s her attempt to lessen the tension, to set the tone of this encounter. Everything she does, from her voice to her movements, is calculated. Purposeful.

Captain Fane ignores her comment as he tosses off his furs over the desk and sets down his flask. “Unfortunately, I don’t have time to play long,” he says, eyeing her body. “Strip and get on the bed.”

I see Rissa’s throat bob, but she doesn’t balk. “Of course, Captain,” she purrs.

Calm, collected, sensual. She’s performing as the embodiment of desire.

Walking over to the bed, she slowly strips with gracefulness and provocative ease. As the captain watches her, I watch him. I see his carnal hunger spike, see him lick his lips.

Rissa doesn’t belong here, on this stained bed, in a room that reeks of alcohol, with maps stuck to the walls with old wax. She’s all soft skin and beauty and poise, and this place is dingy and harsh, with no admiration for her level of worth.

As soon as her nimble fingers release the last button and her dress falls, she climbs onto the bed and waits expectantly for his next order, her blonde hair lying prettily against her skin as she rests on her ankles.

I’ve seen her naked hundreds of times with Midas of course, so I’m used to it, but for a moment, Captain Fane is entranced.

Then he pounces, making it across the room in five long strides.

He’s on her in an instant, crowding over her on the bed. But just when I think he’s going to kiss her, he grabs her by the hair instead and spins her around.

She yelps in surprise as she’s placed on her knees, but the noise is smothered out when he presses her face into the mattress.

My heart starts to race, but Rissa tries to recover, tries to meet him on the battlefield and redirect the act. She turns her head, cheek to pillow, back arched, while groping hands squeeze her bared bottom, pinching her pink. “Oh, Captain, I do like a man who knows how to take charge,” she says in an admiring husky tone.

“Quiet,” he snaps.

Not bothering to remove his tunic, he undoes his belt and loosens his leather pants until they drop to his knees where he’s kneeling behind her. Without warning, he roughly thrusts himself into her.

Hand still fisted in her hair, he moves in and out quickly, like the harsh rap of a hammer. Somehow, Rissa doesn’t flinch or shirk. Instead, she manages to arch back, to pretend, to move with him. She lifts her head up from