Gleam: The dark fantasy romance TikTok sensation that’s sold over a million copies (Plated Prisoner Book 3)

Rip plucks me off the railing. His hold is different now, like he’s mentally already let go. His touch withdrawn.

I hate it.

I hate that I hate it.

I hate that this is so hard. So confusing. So terrifying.

My bottom lip quivers, but I bite down on it. Regret blooms in the pit of my stomach, festering and weighty. Yet I’m too terrified of this constant pull between us, too scared of making the wrong call. His words and touches have left me with a clamor, the ruckus too deafening to think through.

Rip isn’t Midas, I know that. So far, he’s never used me, even when it would’ve benefited him. So maybe deep down I’m fighting that notion, that fear I have that he’ll hurt me like Midas did. Which is why I hear myself admitting, “I don’t choose him. Not anymore. I’m choosing me.”

Rip’s stride falters for a single footstep. Just a breadth of boot over the carpeted runner beneath his feet, but I feel it when my words stick to his soles. But then his steps resume, sure and steady, no reply forthcoming, and I wonder if maybe I imagined it.

All too soon, or maybe after way too long, we’re outside my door. Scofield is there with another guard I don’t recognize.

“My lady?” he asks, eyes going wide. “What—”

“Lady Auren fell on the stairs,” Rip explains. “I’m taking her inside.”

Scofield tries to address me again, but Rip fits the key into the lock and carries me inside without missing a beat or giving the guards a chance to do anything. With a kick to the door, he closes it behind us, eyes sweeping the darkening room, the fire nearly gone out.

“Where do you want me to set you?”

My throat squeezes at the indifference in his tone. “The balcony. Please.” I need to feel the fresh air. I need to breathe in the night and let my lungs fill with something other than the warmth of Rip’s chest. Maybe that will help to dissipate this swarm of emotions hopping beneath my skin.

With a terse nod, he crosses the room, grabbing a pillow and blanket from the bed on his way. He opens the glass balcony door and drops the pillow onto the chair before setting me on it. The blanket is draped around me, but even that doesn’t staunch the cold loss I feel as soon as he’s no longer touching me.

My lips part to say something, anything, to try and lessen these miles between us. But he’s already turned away, past the balcony and back into my room without so much as a goodbye. I suppose I don’t deserve one, anyway.

With a shaky exhale, I turn from the doors and settle into the chair, wrapping the downy blanket tight around me as I try to tell myself this is for the best.

I feel my overheated body cool, feel the overtaxed sweat go dry against my burnished skin. But even in the quiet, stark air, my thoughts don’t even out, my emotions don’t stop swirling.

I keep replaying every wickedly exquisite second we shared as he held me braced on the railing. I keep feeling the scrape of his lips against my skin and the way his solid arms held me against his chest. How is it that I could feel so safe in his arms, and yet in such danger at the same time?

My body may be tired, but the interaction with Rip has left my mind buzzing.

Those things he said…

My own good. How in the world can I be anyone’s good when I feel so bad?

Another tear makes the trek down my face, and I don’t even bother swiping it away. I just lean back, head pillowed by the blanket against the high back chair, my eyes closed to the cold.

I’ve no idea how long I sit there while the night grows darker, but a blanket of black has covered the sky when the sound of footsteps jolts me from my agonized contemplation.

Looking over, I find Rip’s silhouette lit up by the fire he must’ve coaxed back to life in my room. I hadn’t even heard him moving around in there. I thought he’d left. There’s a tray of food in his hand that he sets down on the small iron table next to me, the smell of sugared rolls immediately filling my nose.

“You brought me food?”

“A servant came to the door to deliver it,” he tells me, tone carefully guarded. “You should eat. It might help with the power drain.”

My mouth waters at the sight of it as I sit up, tucking the blanket around me so I can free my arms. “I’m starved.” I cast him a quick look through my lashes. “Thank you.”

He gives me a single nod and then turns to leave, but I find my hand shooting out to catch his arm before I even realize what I’m doing. We both stare down at my gloved fingers curled around his wrist, and I’m not sure which of us is more shocked that I grabbed him.

I quickly let go, a flush rising over my cooled face. “Sorry, I didn’t…” I clear my throat. “I mean… Do you want to stay and eat with me?”

Vulnerable. That quiet question is so very vulnerable.

Maybe all my good sense drained out through my palms right along with the gold, but I don’t want him to go. There’s this cavern split inside of me, a bleak loneliness that widened the moment I denied him the truth.

Rip stares down at me but says nothing, and shame crawls over me like creeping ants, making me want to itch. What I’m doing isn’t fair to either of us.

I should’ve hardened myself against him just like I did with Midas. I want to. I’ve tried to. So why can’t I hate him, like I hate Midas? It would make everything so much easier.

I can see in his conflicted face that he’s going to deny me, shut me down just like I did to him on the railing. So I beat him to it.

“Never mind. Thank you for carrying me upstairs.”

He just stares down at me, expression unreadable in the dark.

“Really,” I say nervously. “Don’t feel obligated to stay with me just because I asked. It’s probably a bad idea, anyway. I have a power hangover, and after that moment on the railing…” I trail off, like my blush has stolen my voice. “Anyway. I’m still furious with you for lying to me, you know, and it’s obvious you’re angry with me now too, so it’s probably better that you don’t stay anyway.”

He shakes his head, looking up at the sky for a moment as if he’s trying to see if he can find some patience tucked away with the budding stars. Maybe he finds some after all, because he lets out a breath and says, “Well, with an invitation like that, how could I resist?”

To my surprise, he sits down in the chair next to me, and I’m not sure if I’m more freaked out or relieved.

I watch him from the corner of my eye as we begin to eat the food on the tray together, always careful that our hands don’t touch, not even letting them get within an inch of each other. My nerves are extra aware of him, and I swear I see his gaze keep landing on the side of my neck, following the path where his mouth traveled.

This was definitely a bad idea.

For a few minutes, the silence between us is a burden. It’s carried on our tense shoulders, groped by stiff hands. But slowly, the weight of it comes off, slipping into something easier, something familiar. For a moment, I can almost pretend we’re back with his army, sharing the quiet of the tent.

I devour two sugared rolls, some honeyed ham, and fruit dipped in cherry-red syrup. I’ve found that the food here is always sweet and sticky, though I don’t really mind right now, since every time I lick my fingers, I feel Rip’s eyes cut over to me.

When we’ve cleared the entire tray, I feel better, no longer like I might topple over any second. With a mug of steamed mead cradled in my palms, I lean back with a sigh just as it begins to snow. The flakes tear off from the clouds, falling like confetti paper ripped off onto a parchment ground.

Soft, slow, comforting.

I look up, letting snow fall onto my lashes, and when I turn to glance at Rip, I find he’s already looking at me.

“So, still angry at me?” he asks with a wry tinge to his tone. I leap at it, relieved to end the silence, to move past the rebuttal on the stairwell.

“Furious.”

Rip tips his head down, as if he expected nothing less.

“You?” I ask him.

“Livid.”

Our mouths twitch in synchronicity, shared smirks tipping up at the corners.

He leans back in his chair, the spikes along his back disappearing beneath his leathers. “We’re quite the pair, you and I.”

At his words, chills scatter over my arms, even though I’m wrapped beneath the blanket. “What do you mean?”

There’s an enigmatic look on his face that I can’t decipher, and he opens his mouth to answer, but appears to reconsider, going silent once more. Flakes of snow land on his black hair, soaking into the inky locks while he considers me with that intensity I’ve grown so accustomed to.

“It’s remarkable, you know.”

“What is?” I ask.

“We might be the last two fae in the entire world, and somehow, our paths crossed that night.”

His words from before, about how my aura was a beacon that he followed, make a lump appear in my throat. “Fate does funny things.”

“It does,” he murmurs, thumb brushing against his bottom lip as he regards me.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He arches a brow. “You know the rules.”

“You know enough of my secrets,” I reply with exasperation. “I want to know how you’re tricking everyone. I saw you outside the stables, with Fake Rip.”

His eyes dance. “You mean when you were checking me out.”

My face immediately grows hot, and my mouth pops open. “I was not checking you out!”

His white teeth gleam in the night. “Little liar.”

I cross my arms. “Well?” I demand, trying my best not to look flustered.

“Well what?” he deflects with a grin.

“Figures,” I grumble. “Alright, then tell me this, why do they really call you Rip?” The question has been plucking at me, an itch I can’t find to scratch.

He crosses his ankles in front of him as he stretches out, and my eyes fall to his strong thighs before lifting back up again. “Now that is an interesting answer.”

I can’t stop myself from leaning forward more, like a dog being teased with a bone. “And?”

“And…I’ll tell you one day.”

The prick.

I roll my eyes and sit back. “When?”

His lips tilt up, making him look entirely too sexy for his own good. “When you’re no longer furious with me.”

Taking a sip of my drink, I enjoy the warmth that blooms in my chest as it travels down. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

“I do. As I keep yours.”

His reply makes my stomach tie in knots. I know I’m sitting here in the night, pretending. Pretending that he’s not King Ravinger, pretending that he doesn’t have his own plots and ploys.

“And why are you keeping my secrets?” I ask carefully.

We’re already so far down this gully, I figure why not go a little further? This might be the only chance we have at such open honesty, while our walls are splintered beneath a paper torn night.

“Because it suits me to do so.” I’m pinned with the pierce of his eyes just like a needle to a moth’s wings, and the sting is the same.

Like pebbles on an ocean floor, disappointment settles in the bottom of my gut. A warning, then. That just because it suits him for now, it doesn’t mean it will suit him always. If it were Midas, he’d wait to use the information until exactly the right moment. It’s what most kings would do.

I suppose the flutters of stomachs and squeezes of hearts just can’t be trusted. Everything that happened tonight—him carrying me, his words, the heat of his hips caught between my thighs as his lips grazed my cheek—they were stolen moments. Moments that we can’t afford to have. Not with our goals so misaligned. Maybe as Rip and Goldfinch, but as Ravinger and Auren? Never.

As much as I wish that things were simpler, different…they’re not, and I can’t pretend otherwise.

Rip straightens up. “And there it is.”

“There what is?”

He gestures at my face, as if he’s read some secret from it. “You just remembered I’m King Slade Ravinger and not just…this.”

I don’t deny it. I can’t. Part of me feels guilty about that, but it’s the truth. If he were just Rip, this wouldn’t be so hard.

“I can’t trust kings.” It’s impossible to keep the sound of regret from my voice. To keep the silent wish from weighing down the words.

He leans forward, bent elbows braced against his knees. “You can trust me.”

The desperation shows. I know it does, because I can’t help the way my eyes flare, the way my body bends toward him. “Prove it.” Not dismissive. Not filled with doubt. My words are pleading with him, demanding for him to do just that.

Please, prove it.

As if he can hear my imploring, Rip unwinds from the chair. His powerful body stands up straight, spikes slowly rising from his arms and back like claws extending from a predator’s paw.

Slowly, that predator in him brings his body closer to mine, one deliberate step at a time. His hands come down on either armrest at my sides, and I plaster my head against the back of the chair as he leans in and steals up all the air.

“I will,” he murmurs, and I let out a puff of a gasp.

Right in front of my eyes, Rip morphs, magic swirling around him like wisps of steam. I’m held immobilized by the waves of his power that gently pulse out. Onyx eyes turn mossy green, scales disappear along with the spikes, ears and bones soften, and tiny fissures reach up his neck to root beneath the scruff of his beard.

My heart pounds uncontrollably as I look at the face of King Ravinger, my hands going slick where they’re bunched in the blanket. Pale skin, forest-green eyes, so masculine and gorgeous that it almost hurts to look at him.

“I’m glad you’re choosing you,” he says quietly, and my lips part, like I want to swallow the rumble of his cadence.

“You are?”

I go completely still as he moves his hand and grips my chin, like he wants to make sure I’m paying attention.

I am.

“Yes, Goldfinch. Because I’m choosing you, too.”

Like a ribbon caught on a wind-bent branch, he lowers, and I lift.

My lips land on his, his tongue sweeps against mine, and then we’re suddenly kissing like we’re starved.

We kiss like two stars colliding, our heat flaring with the threat to burn, while the cold world around us fades in our light. We kiss like we need the taste of one another or we’ll never be able to emerge from the dark.

My entire body bends toward him, every ribbon unwinding, stretching, reaching for him like wings reach for a breeze.

His hand moves to encase my jaw, angling me right where he wants me, and just that—the dominance of him, the strength but utter care—it makes me feel like I could burn forever.

The fire beneath my skin has nothing to do with anger or vendettas. This is pure, hungry, aching want that thrums in the pulse of my veins, refusing to be ignored.

When I nibble on his tongue, he bites down on my bottom lip with an erotic twinge that sweeps a moan from my mouth. He drinks in the sound, calloused hands cradling my face firmly, like he doesn’t want me to slip from his grip.

My ribbons trail out like vines, slinking up his body, wrapping around his arms to pull him closer. A guttural groan thunders from his chest at that, and he deepens the kiss even more, until it’s not just my skin that’s hot, but a needy fire that’s ignited between my legs. He stokes that need even higher when one hand skims down to stroke my ribbons, making a delicious shiver trickle along my back.

Just a kiss. One kiss, and I’m wrecked, because I never want this to stop.noveldrama

I never realized that a kiss could be like this.

My hands brace against his shoulders again, like I need the reminder that he’ll hold me up, fingers digging into the strong muscles beneath the leather. I resent my gloves. I want to feel him, skin to skin, but I can’t stop to pull them off.

Flakes fall from the sky, dusting us with their chill, but the cold has no hope of touching us. I’m hot all over, passion kindled with an aching temptation of more. I think I’d come right out of my seat if he weren’t bowing over me, his body the lure I’m trying to hook to.

But just when I’m ready to drag him down with me, his lips leave mine.

Our breaths are quickened, the blanket a forgotten pile pooling at my waist. I stare at him as my chest heaves in a rapid pitch, lips tingling with the echo of his hold.

His gaze caresses over my face, and mine does the same, my finger coming up to trace the lines of his rooting power, noting the faint shifting beneath my touch.

He pulls away, or…he tries to. We both look down at my mess of ribbons wrapped around him, like they’ve decided to make him their own personal present.

“Sorry…” I say, suddenly embarrassed, moving to quickly tug them off, though they come away begrudgingly.

Ravinger gives me a crooked smile and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with such gentleness that my throat constricts. “Hopefully that clears things up.”

He straightens up, and even though the sight of him still has my pulse racing, it’s not in fear. Not anymore. His timing of that transformation was deliberate. Because his form might change, his eyes, his stance, his name, but those lips, his hands, his words, his heat…they’re the same.

Rip and Ravinger are the same, and it took a kiss for that to really sink in.

As he turns away, he’s already changing again, bringing back the spikes, the scales, the unforgiving stride of a warrior, but it’s still him.

He stops at the balcony door and looks back at me, the last of his green eyes ebbing away. “Goodnight, Auren.”

It’s still him.

Which is why I murmur, “Goodnight…Slade.”

His eyes widen for an infinitesimal moment, belying his shock that I’ve called him by his first name. Then his lips curl up, my ribbons curling too, as if we’re sharing something private, intimate. Something poignant between us.

Maybe we are.

When he’s gone, I sit back in my chair, blanket forgotten, unnecessary after the heat we invoked. In the silent snowfall, I whisper his name again, just a few more times, a single-word plea to the cluster of hidden stars above.

Please, let him prove it.