“What about the other saddles? The guards?” I ask.
“Their release is part of the negotiation. They’ll be escorted to Ranhold tonight,” Osrik answers.
I peer over at Rip, but his gaze is straight ahead, expression stone-faced. I see the muscle at his jaw tighten, like he’s clenching his teeth.
There’s definitely no pendulum swinging inside ofhim. He’s not wavering, not contemplative. He’s just pissed.
I know that it’s directed at me. Even after I sent the messenger hawk, his anger wasn’t like this. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for choosing Midas, even though I warned him time and time again that I would.
Osrik must feel the animosity too, because he keeps glancing over, as if he expects Rip to snap.
A sadness settles over me, like the soft silt of sand. It covers my skin, so many tiny particles that I know will continue to cling to me for a long time.
I hate how we’re leaving things. Even though it’s only been a short time since I’ve been with him, and even though I was technically his prisoner, I never once felt that desolate, empty discontent here that I felt back in Highbell. I wish I could tell him that.
But Midas... They don’t get it. I can’t stay. Midas won’t let me go, not ever.
I don’t care how fierce Rip is, or how powerful King Rot is. Midas will stop atnothingto get me back, and I can’t let anyone try to step between that. It wouldn’t be fair—not to Rip, not to Midas.
I couldn’t do that to Midas, either. He and I are connected. Not just through gold, but through time. Through love. I can’t abandon that, can’t abandonhim. Not after everything we’ve been through together.
I open my mouth to try and explain, to try and say something,anything, to make Rip hate me less, but then we’re suddenly there, stopping in front of the envoy, and I’ve lost my chance.
My ticking pendulum ran out of time.
“Your king’s gold-touched saddle, as requested,” Rip says, his voice hard as steel, his expression even harder.
The men in the envoy approach on their shaggy white horses, and I have to try not to frown at their golden armor. I never realized before just how garish it looks.
I once thought of it as elegant, but next to Osrik and Rip, it just seems silly. Unlike Fourth’s, whose armor bears the marks of battle, their gold gleams without a single imperfection, like it’s all just for show.
“Lady Auren.” A man with white-blond hair jumps down from his horse and steps forward, the rest of the envoy stopping in a line behind him. “We are here to deliver you to King Midas.” He looks up at me expectantly, though not daring to come any closer.
“Aren’t you going to help her down?” Rip asks, and the tone of his voice could only be explained as a growl. It makes the man’s face go pale, the others shifting on their feet.
The golden soldier clears his throat. “No one is allowed to touch the king’s favored.”
Rip’s head turns slowly toward me. I can feel the judgment in it, and my cheeks burn beneath the cover of my hood. I don’t have it in me to look at him.
“Of course. How could I forget the rules of your golden king?” Rip replies with open disparagement.
Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, I remove my right foot from the stirrup, preparing to jump off my horse. But just as I swing my leg over, Rip is there, hands gripping my waist.
A surprised gasp slips through my lips, and my gaze snaps to his face. He’s so stern, so intense. His black eyes carry a thousand words, but without any light for me to read them.
There’s a sound of hissed shock that comes from Midas’s soldiers, but I don’t look away. I’m too busy letting my eyes run over Rip’s face, like I’m trying to memorize him.
“Commander, I must insist that you don’t touch King Midas’s favored.”
“I must insist that you shut the fuck up,” Osrik drawls.
Rip doesn’t look away from me, doesn’t pay them any attention at all. He simply lifts me off the horse as if I weigh nothing and helps me down.
Awareness surges through my body with every dragged inch as he slowly lowers me to the ground in front of him. My heart is pounding so hard that I know he can hear it. I can feel the firmness of his grasp and the heat of his palms. Even through the layers of his gloves and my clothes, it makes me warm all over.
But when he brings me down far enough that our faces only have an inch of separation, I lean away from him on instinct.
The instant I do that, Rip’s expression snaps.
