Gild: The dark fantasy TikTok sensation that’s sold over a million copies (Plated Prisoner Book 1)
Gild: Chapter 11

He makes me feed him.

Platters of food are brought out and placed on a table between the thrones, and Midas and Fulke enjoy the spread, the saddles around me indulging too.

Meats, cheeses, chocolates, fruit, bread. Sweet-smelling cakes and vinegar dips. I feed him everything as I sit on the armrest of the throne, my body twisted toward him as much as I have to without allowing any part of me to touch him.

But no matter how careful I am to hold as little of the food as I can without dropping it, he still sucks my fingers into his mouth, licking the pads of my fingers, scraping my nails with his teeth.

The piece of chocolate in my hand is quickly nabbed, his mouth sucking my fingers in before I can pull away. He laughs as he chews, the confectionary staining his teeth as he licks them. “Your gold skin makes the food taste so much richer.”

I feel the eyes of the other saddles look over at me, assessing, judging, calculating, sizing me up as a threat, as if I want his attention.

Midas is speaking to more nobles again, the spot beside his throne filled one after another, as people occupy his time and borrow his ear. He hasn’t glanced my way at all since I was traded off to Fulke.

“Open.”

My eyes flick up to Fulke’s hand that’s hovering in front of my face. A slice of meat is caught between his fingers, sauce dripping off the bottom and landing on his black velvet leggings.

When I start to shake my head, horrified at the thought of having his fingers anywhere near my mouth or touching my food, Fulke raises a bushy brow. A question. A demand.

Behave tonight.

My lips part, barely, and Fulke presses the meat into my mouth, more forceful than he needs to. When he tries to push his fingers inside, I turn my head and snap my mouth closed.

He smirks. “What a naughty thing you are.”

I feel Midas’s gaze fall over me, and my shoulders stiffen.

“No matter. It marks for a titillating evening, doesn’t it?”

Bread is pushed past my lips next. Cheese. Grapes. I chew mindlessly, staying silent, my eyes watchful, my ribbons tight.

With an outstretched index finger, he does a double tap against his goblet, his power flaring as he duplicates the cup and hands one to me. With a snap of his finger, a servant hurries over, filing them both with wine.

“A toast to our night,” he says before tipping it against his lips and gulping down the contents.

I take a bitter sip.

When Fulke is bored of feeding me, he takes both goblets and places them on the table, shooing away any more trays of food. I’m glad that’s over at least. The food sits in my stomach, as heavy as stones, my tongue belligerent for the taste of his fingers still lingering on it.

Of course, I don’t get let off that easy though, because Fulke lifts a finger to point to his plump cheek. “Kiss me.”

My eyes narrow, skin tightening, fingers curling in the skirts of my dress. When I don’t move, Fulke’s eyes flash. His hand comes up to pinch my ear, pulling me forward until my mouth lands against his scratchy cheek. Scratchy, not smooth like Midas. A rounded jaw and pudgy cheek, smelling of wine but reeking of arousal.

My lips don’t pucker, because I refuse to kiss him. My mouth presses against his skin as he holds me there, my ear squeezed between his finger and thumb.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he laughs.

The moment he releases my ear, I lurch away, nearly tipping myself over the side of the throne, but Fulke grabs hold of my arms to catch me, holding me steady as his laugh deepens. “No need to fall down to your knees for me yet.”

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, with anger. I want to get away. I want to be back upstairs, safe in my cage with only the Gale Widow’s cries for company.

Fulke doesn’t release me right away, and his hands that are still gripping my arms squeeze tighter, enough for me to wonder if I’ll be bruised later in dots of bronze. “I don’t think you’re close enough yet.”

He pulls me onto his lap without warning. A feat, considering my body is so rigid. It’s a wonder he’s able to get me to move at all. I land awkwardly, stiffly, the back of my legs hitting his thighs and my spine snapping upright so that I don’t lean against his chest. I try to grab the armrests to pull myself up, but Fulke snatches one of my wrists and places my palm over his crotch.

“Here, golden pet.”

My eyes flare wide. My stomach churns. I feel his flaccid length begin to grow and harden. And as much as I want to snatch my hand away, I can’t, because he’s holding my wrist there with surprising strength.

I live in a cage, but I’ve never felt so trapped.

“Your Majesty.”

Fulke’s eyes travel past me to where Rissa has come up in front of him. “Shall I dance for you?” she asks with a sultry smile, her blonde hair in long waves against her front, somewhat hiding her naked breasts.

King Fulke eyes her greedily and tilts his head, giving her the go-ahead. She starts to dance, her black skirts swishing against the polished floor and arcing against her ankles, her hips moving to the pulse of the music, her eyes a lure of enticement matched by the curve of her lips.

Fulke finally releases my wrist to lean back, and I’m able to snatch my hand away as he gives his attention to Rissa’s performance. “Watch her,” he tells me, his mouth entirely too close to my ear for my liking. “This is a saddle who knows what she’s doing. You’d do well to learn from her on how to please a man.”

How to please a man. As if that should be a woman’s—saddle or otherwise—sole purpose for living. The edge of my lip curls with the hint of a sneer.

Rissa’s smile widens at his commendation, her eyes casting over me as if to gauge whether or not I’m jealous, but of course I’m not. I’m relieved. Whether she intended to or not, she gave me a much-needed reprieve from his attention. Like I tried to give her in the library.

No one else can probably see the slight swelling of her nose or the layer of makeup beneath her eye that’s more than likely covering a bruise, but I do, and the sight makes me inwardly cringe. I really didn’t mean to hurt her.

“Mmm, she is a rather good dancer, wouldn’t you say, pet?”

I nod obediently. He clearly has a thing for making her dance for him. Rissa, ever the professional, continues to sway seductively.

She’s beautiful. High apple cheekbones; large, round eyes; blonde hair nearly down to her waist; curves; and full pink lips. It’s no wonder why Fulke likes her so much. And it’s not just her beauty, either—all of Midas’s saddles are beautiful—but it’s her confidence, the way she can read a man and know how to seduce him. She can transform, from her walk to her words, into becoming what someone wants.

Fulke rests a hand on my hips, thick fingers digging above the bone, pressing into flesh with a clear indication of possession. Until he gets bored with this as well, and instead moves me to sit on the floor in front of his legs. I think he likes the visualization of Midas’s most prized favored sitting at his feet.

My legs are tucked beneath me, the only position I can be in to keep myself covered. Some of the nobles attending the party grow bolder, no doubt bolstered by the wine. They come closer to the dais, murmuring and staring at me, and I stare right back. I don’t lower my head. I don’t turn my gaze away.

Let them talk.

Let them look.

Fulke gets caught up in a discussion with Midas and a few other men as they discuss new trade routes to be established from Fourth Kingdom. About new investment opportunities with the Blackroot Mines. As if standing in a solid gold ballroom isn’t enough.

The longer I’m made to sit on the floor, the more my knees and calves begin to ache. I try to shift to relieve some of the pressure, allowing some of the blood to rush back into my sore, scrunched limbs.

I tense when Fulke’s hand comes down on my head. A master petting his dog. “Speaking of new commodities,” Fulke begins, his fingers stroking through my hair, eyes gleaming. “Just a dozen strands of her hair must be worth a month’s wages for a peasant.”

“Hmm,” Midas says noncommittally, even as his eyes watch the way Fulke touches me. There’s possessiveness in his gaze, but he doesn’t step in. He doesn’t stop this.

I can feel a sharp, wet crackle burn in my eyes like a spitting wick, some invisible flame flickering in the center of my irises as tears threaten to pool like liquid fire.

And there, in the corner of a ten-year-long foundation of reliance and trust, a break appears. Like a shallow, jagged chip knocked into glass, a tiny fissure like spider’s silk spreads up an inch.

Rissa stops dancing long enough to perch beside Fulke, her deft fingers kneading into his shoulders, her legs draped over the arm of the throne in a graceful stretch.

While he talks, she expertly continues her sensual touches, from shoulders to chest, down to his abdomen and the waist of his pants. She brushes against his hardening length with a teasing smirk, catching the eyes of other men across the room who watch with hunger. A show for more than just the benefit of the king beneath her.

And I realize right then, that this 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.