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

After talking to Rissa, I head for the antechamber, leaving Scofield and Lowe to stay perched on the benches while I go into the library. I creep around inside, trying not to get caught by the robed scribes, who are way too protective of the mildewed books and unreadable scrolls.

If I wasn’t in constant worry of being caught, I’d be able to look for the castle’s blueprints unhindered and uninterrupted, but I don’t have that luxury. So I search the forgotten stacks, rifling through neglected shelves as I squint in the terrible lighting. On hands and knees or stretched up on tiptoes, I scour the place, only to have to skitter away whenever someone walks by.

But what have I found during all my time searching?

Nothing.

Which tells me I’m not looking in the right spots. I have a bad feeling that they might be kept at the front of the room, but that’s the one place I can’t go, because there’s always that one scribe there who caught me before, body bowed over the table and scratching away with his quill.

I’m probably going to leave empty-handed again tonight, and that terrifies me. Because with Rissa’s new plan, time is breathing down my neck now more than ever. I might have to abandon this idea of finding a map and start searching on foot instead. I have no idea how I’m going to avoid all of the guards in this place though.

I don’t want to fail—myself or Digby. And I don’t want to be failed, either.

At that awful dinner, with the way Midas treated me, there was a moment when I wanted Slade to intervene. To show me that his previous words were true.

I let myself hope.

Since we kissed on my balcony, this thing between us has grown. Expanded. Just like he was accused of encroaching on Fulke’s territory, Slade has encroached on me. On my emotions.

I tried to fold it up. Creased it with denial, tucking it beneath the furthest recesses of my thoughts. But like a finger slipping beneath the flap of a letter, I couldn’t resist the temptation to open it, to see what was inside.

Now, all I have are empty words and paper cut pains radiating from my chest, because he didn’t prove it to me like he said he would.

My stupid heart hasn’t learned its lesson, it seems. So I have to get out of here before it ruins me completely.

Suppressing a sneeze from the dusty air, I get to my feet, sore knees popping from all the time I’ve spent kneeling on the hard floor rummaging through scrolls. I didn’t find anything in this stack but old birth records of Fifth’s monarchs.

Real exciting stuff.

With a huff, I drag myself away, delving deeper into the cavernous room and wishing for the hundredth time that there was more light in this place.

I wander over to a bookshelf that’s cut right into the wall. A single sconce hangs on the left, a good foot away from the nearest shelf and casting off a pitiful amount of light. Honestly, there’s enough dust on these books that they’d probably smother any flame that dared try to burn anything.

Squinting, I let my fingers drag across the book spines just enough to read the titles. When nothing helpful leaps out at me, I stand up on my tiptoes to look at the scrolls at the top, but just as my fingers close around some, footsteps clop my way.

With a silent grumble, I abandon the shelf and hurry in the opposite direction, cursing whichever scribe is interrupting me. I’m never going to find these stupid maps at this rate.

As I head for the first bookcase to duck behind, another pair of footsteps sounds from that direction. The two scribes begin to talk quietly as they near each other, their voices echoing off the walls and making it sound like they’re much closer than I first thought.

I whirl on my heel and rush back the way I came and then dart between two shelves, not even paying attention to where I’m going, so long as it’s far away from them.

The voices converge somewhere to my left, and then their steps fall into unison as they walk together. Toward me. Again. I shoot a look at the ceiling as if I can see straight through to the night sky and curse the goddesses hiding in the stars.

I cut a sharp right to the next aisle of stacks, and then another one, and another. The library swallows me in its dark belly, but it’s worth it, because soon, I put enough distance between us that I don’t hear the scribes speaking anymore. I stop to catch my breath, ears straining, and finally relax after several seconds when no other sounds greet me.

Unfortunately, the deep breaths I keep pulling in means I inhale a whole lot of dust, and my nose tingles violently. All I manage to do is slap a hand over my mouth before the sneeze ruptures out of me.

It echoes.

Loudly.

I freeze in horror, heart taking off like a wild horse, not daring to even breathe as I listen for the scribes to come running my way.

“Bless you.”

A shriek clutches my tongue and crumples beneath my throat. Hand on heart, I spin around and find none other than Slade leaning against the stone bookshelf. With dark clothes, piercing green eyes, and power curling over his sharp jaw, he practically basks in the shadows.

“Don’t do that!” I snap, though my voice is barely louder than an exhale. I’ve made enough noise as it is.

With his arms crossed in front of him and a smirk on his pale face, the bastard looks perfectly at ease and amused as hell.

“Do what?” he asks with a cock of his head. “Say bless you?”

I look over my shoulder as if I’m ready for the scribes to storm the row and grab me with their frail, age-spotted hands.

“Be quiet!” I hiss.

This time, he does nothing to hide his amusement, because his teeth gleam in the dark as a smile spreads over his face. “Only you would dare tell King Rot to be quiet.”

“Maybe more people should…” I mumble.

A low rumbling chuckle rolls around in his chest like loosening stones before the rockslide.

He doesn’t get a chance to reply to my rudeness, because just then, a scribe suddenly appears at the end of the aisle, making my stomach drop like a boulder.

Face aglow with the lantern in his bony hands, the orangish cast-off makes the man look scary, long white hair like a drape of fire. Dressed in heavy purple robes that sweep against the floor, his eyes immediately land on me with an indignant glare. “What are you doing in here?”

My mouth goes dry, mind fumbling with an excuse. “Umm…”

He comes closer, and I back up a step, my hopes and plans crashing down around me. All of this because of a stupid sneeze.

“You don’t have permission to be in here.”

I don’t know if the lantern light is throwing off his vision or if the shadows surrounding Slade are too heavy, but the scribe doesn’t seem to notice the king behind me until Slade moves.

Like the wind, he picks up and brushes past until he’s standing at my side like a cool caress. “I gave her permission to be in here.”

The scribe’s eyes widen, mouth gaping for a moment. “King Ravinger. I didn’t see you there,” he says, bending his hunched spine into a bow.

Slade says nothing, but all previous signs of his amusement are gone. There isn’t a single lingering touch of his easygoing energy left, but I’m honestly grateful. It makes it easier to keep an emotional distance from him when his kingly mask is on.

“Apologies, Your Majesty, but this is the royal library. Those outside of royal lineage are not allowed inside,” the nervous scribe says.

A pulse of power seeps into the air. Not Slade’s magic in full force by any means, but just a push. An undertone that ripples from him and spreads out, making a chill trickle over my skin, my ribbons quivering.

Despite the lighting, I can see the blood drain from the scribe’s face as he’s suddenly reminded exactly who he’s talking to.

“I…of course. If she’s with you, then that rule is negated.”

Slade looks at him with an expression cut from stone. “Good. You can go.”

The scribe nods, not daring to glance my way before he turns and leaves without another word. As soon as he’s gone, an exhale of relief expels out of me. “Thanks,” I say, and then I start to walk away too, because being alone with Slade is bad for my plans.

Much to my irritation, he follows me, sticking like a thorn in my side. I shoot him a look. “Do you mind?”

Hands tucked into pockets, the bastard strolls. Leisurely. Like he has nothing better to do. “Not at all. I enjoy long walks in a dreary library.”

“Royal library,” I snip. “And great. Go enjoy that walk somewhere else.”

His brow furrows with a frown. “Are you…mad at me?”

The fact that he even has to ask…

A bitter laugh pops from my mouth. “Mad? No, of course not. Why would I be mad?” I reply breezily. “Now, I’d like you to stop following me and go do…whatever it is you were doing here before I sneezed and leave me alone.”

His footsteps falter. “Auren.”

I ignore him, but that’s never stopped him before.

“Auren,” he says again, tone insistent, an edge of impatience cutting through.

I stop in my tracks but don’t turn to face him. “What?”

Slade comes up to my side so that every word he speaks paints my lips with his air. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

The breath that comes in my chest is shaken, because my heart can’t take this constant disappointment, this circle of hope and distrust.

My eyes flick left to the bookcase, and I stare at the bindings, like I need to fasten my gaze onto something solid. Onto something other than him.

“Midas was always different in private,” I hear myself say, my lips feeling cold in this forbidding place. “In public, he was the king, and he acted like it. It was necessary, he said. It was necessary for him to marry Malina. Necessary to start calling me his favored gold-touched saddle. Necessary for appearances to use me like a shiny trophy to dangle in front of others. No matter that I was in love with him when he dragged me across the kingdoms and brought me to that horrible icy place.”

I shiver and cross my arms around me, and my ribbons cross right along with them, as if they’re trying to ward off the chill. Too bad this one is inside of me.

Slade is quiet. Listening. Like he’s hearing every word but looking at them in a hundred different directions.

“I put up with all of it because he was different in private,” I admit. “He said just enough of the right things. When we were alone, when there were no other eyes around, he whispered pretty words and swore grand promises.”

One of my ribbons slinks down to wrap around my palm, twining around my fingers like it’s giving my hand a squeeze of comfort.

“I don’t understand.” He sounds almost…at a loss. Which is impossible. Slade Ravinger is always sure of himself.

“I told you to prove it to me, and yet you sat there at that table and you were a king.”

He sucks in a breath. Like he’s trying to pull in my truth. Trying to taste it, understand it.

I turn to look at him, ribbons dropping to my feet, chin lifted, my expression unyielding. “Pretty promises in private, and the uncaring king in public.” I shake my head, letting him see the disappointed look on my face. “I’ve been down that road before, Slade. I won’t do it again. I asked you to prove it, and you didn’t.”

He expels a breath and turns away, shoving a hand through his thick black hair. “Fuck.”

I turn to leave, but faster than I can track, he somehow steps in front of me and blocks my way before I can take a second step. I try to turn back the other way instead, but that’s a mistake, because he stops my turn by jutting out an arm to cut me off.

Now I’m stuck, back against the bookshelf, his hands braced on the shelves on either side of me. He takes another step forward into me, even though there’s no space for it. His body crowds mine, making a gasp balk from my mouth.

“Move,” I tell him.

“No,” he quickly says with a shake of his head. “Let me explain.”

I scoff and roll my eyes, because how many times have I heard that? I don’t want to be that person anymore, that rug for everyone to walk all over.

“Things with Midas and I are precarious at best,” Slade tells me, his fixed eyes like emeralds, glinting unnaturally in the dark.

“You hate him. You’ve made that perfectly clear, so why not just kill him?” I ask, because I’m honestly curious. I don’t think his level of loathing has been a farce.

Slade’s eyes go shuttered. “Believe it or not, I don’t go around killing without thought. He’s a king. If I were to end him, especially using my magic, there would be implications to that, which would set off a chain of events. He rules people, and right now, he’s making plays to rule even more. But sometimes, if you cut off the head of a monster, two more crop up.”

Realization dawns. “You’re worried that if Midas weren’t king, someone even worse would take his place?”noveldrama

He gives me a terse nod. “Better to play the game and be ten moves ahead of him, to learn his weaknesses and to cut him where it hurts. If I simply lashed out and killed him, I’d have more than just his kingdom to worry about. I’d have the other royals banding against me. They’re nervous enough about my reign and my magic as it is. I have the wellbeing of my own people to consider. No one likes a rotten king, but it’s my people who would suffer, as well as the innocents in the other kingdoms if any of the monarchs strike out against me and force war.”

I can see the shifting marks of his power move beneath his skin, each one as thin as a hair strand. They move up his neck and disappear beneath his stubble like fishing line dipping beneath water.

I’ve offended him, that much is clear. And for a split second, I see the male beneath the crown. I see the way the world perceives him and the damage that can do to a person. If anyone knows about being made notorious, about being made into a thing, it’s me.

My chest hurts all of a sudden, my resolve jabbed-through with little pinpricks of pain.

His voice lowers, eyes bright and sharp, poking even more holes through me. “You think I wanted to sit there and do nothing while that asshole spoke to you that way?” he bites out. “You think I enjoyed his childish power play by ordering you to be carried to that harp? I wanted to leap over the table and crush his throat with my bare hands.”

As if to demonstrate his words, he lifts his arm, and his palm wraps around my neck. Except he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t hurt. His dark words coil around my thumping heartbeat, while his touch encompasses my throat. His thumb brushes against my drumming pulse, not in a threat, but as a caress.

It takes a lot of willpower not to let my eyes flutter closed at the intimate touch, not to lean into his chest, though I feel the warmth of it like a blanket around my body. Aside from Midas, he’s the only person who touches me.

Every grip and stroke seems to fill an empty well inside of me. Despite the fact that he knows what touching my bare skin can do, he never hesitates. It’s like he can’t help himself, like he needs to feel me.

Midas never touches me like that. His touches are always placating—a pat on my head, a tap on my jaw. Either that, or it’s possessive. But with Slade, it’s neither of those things. He touches me like he can’t resist, like he can’t go one more second without feeling me.

Resisting him is difficult. But somehow, I don’t let myself surrender to that heat he spreads, don’t give in to that aching feeling that thrums to life between my legs. Instead, I slap his hand off me.

He lets go, hand dropping down to his side, and I take a mental fist around my ribbons, stopping them from reaching out. This close to him, it’s too hard to curb my feelings. So I turn my cheek, because I don’t want to get caught in the trap of his eyes or taste the lure of his words.

But as soon as I turn my head, he goes utterly still.

It’s an unnatural stillness. The kind that makes my breath shrivel up while confusion and fear slithers through me.

Fury pumps into the air around us, and then, with a voice as dark as the pits of hell, Slade says something that makes my eyes go wide. “Why the fuck is there a bruise on your cheek?”