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

Crickets. That’s what my advisors remind me of.

Wilcox, Barthal, and Uwen, all noblemen from once flourishing Highbell houses. They’re pests who hop at my feet, only daring to make noise when nothing else rises to challenge them.

“We cannot take away farming rights of House Bansgot,” Barthal says, the frown fitting perfectly into his aging face, since it’s one of his most-used expressions when he’s in my presence.

“He’s right, Your Majesty,” Uwen agrees from my left. “They have had those rights for generations.”

My fingers rise one after another, then my nails tap down in sequence on the table in front of me. It still smells of new paint. The palace carpenter looked at me like I was mad when I bid him to cover every gold piece of furniture in the meeting chamber, but he did as he was told.

It took five coats of white paint to completely cover the gaudy metal, and five days for it to fully dry.

Of course, that was the day my spies informed me that Fourth Kingdom did not wage war on Fifth like I hoped they would. Instead, it seems King Rot and Tyndall have struck some sort of tentative truce. That alone put me in a foul mood, but then I heard about her. The golden cunt is still alive, and back in Tyndall’s possession.

My lips pull into a sneer.

I handed her and the other whores to the Red Raids on a silver platter, and the pirates ruined it, gave the saddles up and then fled like the cowards they are. Just thinking about it makes my temper frost over, ice burning in my gut.

Men ruin all of women’s best laid plans.

Drawing myself back into the conversation, I give a terse shake of my head. “I don’t care how long they’ve had it. House Bansgot declared that they will only pay their taxes directly to Tyndall, which is treason,” I reply.

“The king—”

I cut Uwen off. “Tyndall,” I stress pointedly, “is not ruling Sixth anymore. I am.” Their chirping goes quiet, as it always does. “Taxes are due, and everyone will pay or reap the consequences. The Bansgots are three weeks late in their payment and have thus ignored all attempts at collection. So, they will lose their farming rights, and I will bestow it on a House who is loyal to their Colier queen.”

All three men gape at me while I suppress an irritated sigh.noveldrama

My grip on Highbell is tentative at best. Every day, I attempt to make strides, to solidify my rule and to vilify Tyndall, but the pushback only seems to worsen. The nobles are split down the middle. Houses that were once loyal to my father and his father before him now spit in their faces by rejecting me. All because Tyndall has dazzled them with wealth.

Which is why I have dried up their taps by cutting off their monthly gifts of gold.

Yet for every countermove I make, I seem to still lose ground, and it infuriates me. First the peasants, and now the nobles.

But I will bring them to heel. I must.

“Give the farming rights to House Shurin. They can hold the contract to supply Highbell with its crops, and we’ll also send them a cart of gold to thank them for their loyalty,” I say, fingers fiddling with the furred collar of my gown.

Uwen presses his lips together, though he writes it all down dutifully.

“Now—” I’m cut off when a knock sounds on the door. “Enter.”

My guard pops his head inside. “Pardon, my queen, but a messenger has arrived for you.”

“A messenger from where?”

“Fifth Kingdom.”

I feel my advisors go tense, anxious air stilling in their throats. “Ah, Tyndall has at last come to the conclusion that I’m ignoring him,” I say. “Show the messenger in. I’ll receive him here.”

A few tense minutes tick by while my nails continue to drum on the table. My dear husband has finally deigned to realize that his hold on Highbell is being challenged. I feel both excitement and anticipation to see what his response will be.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. The chess game of kings and queens is never dull, and I’ve been wanting to go up against Tyndall for a long time.

When footsteps sound down the hall, my thrumming fingers hit a little too hard. My eyes dart down to where the white paint has scraped off, now buried beneath my nail. Frustration blooms in my chest when I note the sliver of gold now showing through the scratch on the tabletop. One slip, and five coats of paint are ruined, just like that. The damning metal mocks me, a taunting crescent smile to meet my glare.

“Your Majesty?”

I look up at the open door, as two of my guards escort the messenger inside. He’s dressed in gold armor and a heavy cloak with jagged tufts of snowfall stuck to it, like white-barbed brambles.

As soon as I look upon his wind-chapped face, recognition flares. “Ah, Gifford. Still delivering Tyndall’s messages, I see. No promotion?”

The olive-toned man bows to me in greeting, ignoring my jab. “One doesn’t need a promotion when doing the gods’ bidding.”

One of my snow-white brows arches up. “The gods? Goodness, first Tyndall rises above his station to become king, and now he’s a god? How much gold did that cost him?” I ask with a wry pull of my lips. I feel Wilcox shoot me a disapproving look, but that only adds to my amusement.

Gifford shakes his head, brown eyes giving nothing away. “Not so much blasphemy as that, Your Majesty. Just that the gods ordain and bless the monarchs. By doing a king’s bidding, I’m doing the gods’ bidding as well.”

My head tilts. “And what of queens and goddesses? Am I not ordained, Gifford?”

He hesitates, shooting my advisors a look before answering. “Of course, Your Majesty, I meant no offense.”

“You’ve given none. I don’t hold the sap accountable for its dribble. It’s the tree that makes it, after all.” I can tell by his furrowed brow that he has no idea what I’m saying. I wave a hand at him. “I assume you have a message from my dear estranged husband?”

Gifford shifts on his feet. “I do, Your Majesty. He sent me on a timberwing so I may arrive swiftly. He is concerned about you.”

A corner of my mouth curves. “I’m sure.”

“When all of his hawks went unanswered…” the man trails off.

“I’m on tenterhooks,” I say blandly, holding out a hand.

He starts to come forward, but my guard holds up an arm to stop him. “I’ll hand Her Majesty the message.”

Gifford dips his head. “Of course.” Digging into a pouch that’s strung across his hip, he takes out a gold cylinder and passes it over.

My guard opens it, dipping the letter out, eyeing it suspiciously before he passes it to me. “Thank you,” I murmur as he takes a step back.

The metallic wax seal of a bell—my bell—greets me.

The parchment is thick, though shorter than I expected. As I unroll it to read, my back stiffens with every scratched word, my lips pressing together so hard they probably turn white.

I’ve crumpled the letter in my fist before I even realize I’m doing it.

“Your Majesty?”

I don’t know which of my chirping crickets speaks, and I don’t care. I stand, shoving my chair back too hard. The legs scrape against the painted floor, more white flaking up to leave behind a skid of gold.

My fist tightens harder around the letter.

“My queen?”

Still ignoring them all, I stalk out of the room, my guards hurrying to keep up with me as I leave behind a bewildered audience. The entire way upstairs, I keep my hand clenched, letting the thick, sharp edges of the paper dig into my palm.

It’s not until I get into my rooms and slam the door behind me that I finally uncurl my fist and throw the damning letter into the burning fire. I hurl a yell of frustration along with it, a noise made through clenched teeth and a rigid neck.

Hands braced on the mantel, I glare into the flames, watch the words burn, wishing I could burn the hand that penned it.

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t turn away, don’t blink. The heat of the flames blankets my eyes, but still I watch it all turn to ash.

Jeo steps up beside me and places a tentative hand on my back. “What happened, my love?”

“Love,” I spit, jerking away from him as I turn. “You do not love me, Jeo. You are my royal saddle. A whore I pay to ride. Do not pander to me with pretty lies.”

His arm drops and a look of hurt crosses his expression. I wish it would linger. I wish I could spread that hurt, make everyone suffer as much as I suffer this life.

“Fine,” he says, copper hair flickering in the light of the fire, his freckled face red with both anger and embarrassment. “What’s wrong, Queen Malina?” he asks pointedly.

“You want to know what’s wrong?” I snap. “Every prick who ever prodded a maiden and stole her virtue. Every bastard who was ever born to taint bloodlines. Every man who rose up by standing on the bellies of women.”

Jeo’s thick red brows pull together. “I’m not following.”

“He impregnated one of his whores!” I shout, the ice around my temper shattering.

He blinks in surprise. “Tyndall?”

“Of course, Tyndall,” I seethe, eyes blazing. “Who else?”

My saddle opens his mouth, but then closes it before he can speak. Beside us, the fire continues to crackle, teeth gnashing on the letter I’ve fed it.

“Spit it out, Jeo.”

“Well, it’s just…” His hands run down the front of his white tunic, like he wants to smooth away what he’s about to say. “I thought he was the impotent one.”

I clench my teeth, my gaze turning so cold it could rival Sixth’s storms. He’s lucky. If I did have magic in my veins, I would strike him down where he stands for daring to say such a thing to me.

“So it’s my fault I don’t have a child, is that it?” My tone is so deathly low that surely it reaches the depths of the ground and seeps its way into hell.

Jeo’s contrition does nothing for me. “My queen, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Get out.”

He rears back, blue eyes widening. “Malina…”

“I won’t need your services tonight, Jeo. Leave.”

Turning, I face the fire again and stare down at the demonic force, watching it lick and mangle everything into cinders. My ears follow the sound of Jeo’s footsteps as he walks out and closes the door behind him, and only then do I let out a sigh.

I expected anger and a political move from Tyndall once he realized I was trying to take Sixth from him. I expected a Divine-damned response for all the hard work I’ve done to overthrow his rule right out from under him.

But no.

He’s ignored all of it, as if I’ve done nothing. As if the quiet treason I’ve committed doesn’t matter at all, and none of my moves are worth his attention. He didn’t even deign to threaten me.

Instead, he instructs me to formally declare a pregnancy and then shut myself up in my chambers for the next six months. When I come out, it will be with a babe in my arms. With an infant that isn’t my own. His whore’s child, passed off as a prince or princess.

In his words:

You will do this so that you may finally do your duty to me as my wife, and I shall be able to claim a legitimate heir.

My eyes burn, but I don’t blink. I let my irises become consumed with the reflection of the flames.

I know the true threat for what it is. There’s no doubt that he knows what I’m doing here, but he plans to strap me with his bastard baby.

You will do this, or you will no longer be useful to me as a wife.

Useful. That’s all that’s ever mattered to him: whether or not I was useful.

I don’t even notice that my hand drops down to my stomach, that my nails dig into the flesh there. The flatness that belies a barren womb.

If he truly believes I would ever take his whore’s baby and pretend it was my own, then he doesn’t know me at all. No, if I can’t have children, then he can’t either.

I’ll rip Highbell from his grasp and crush his hopes of claiming an heir.

After all, he did it to me first.