Accomplice to the Villain (Assistant and the Villain, #3)(22)

“You tried to run my father out of business and then murdered him in cold blood!”

“I assure you, my blood was quite warm when I did it. I think it was the wool socks I was wearing. They insulate.”

He sputtered, and Evie nearly laughed—nearly. She still had some semblance of a sound mind. Otto Warsen’s son pulled on her hair, forcing her to lift her chin. “The kingdom has declared you ‘The Wicked Woman’ for a reason. You’ve no sense of morality. Always feigning innocent, playing the victim when you are nothing but a snake.” He punctuated the final word with another slam of her body into the wall.

She nodded as he raised the blade high above her, the pain in her head now causing her ears to ring. “You’re right. I was never very good at being a victim,” she choked out, feeling something sticky and warm running at the corner of her mouth. Blood.

His blade came down.

Evie closed her eyes and whispered, “Because I’m a villain.”

A dark-gray mist launched between them and stopped the blade less than an inch from her face, followed by a voice booming through the kitchens that made her nearly collapse at its familiar sound.

“Release her now or I will tear out your insides and lob you off the manor in pieces.” The threat was vicious, dangerous. It came from the kind of voice that gave children nightmares.

I, on the other hand, will be sleeping like a baby tonight.

“Unless you’d prefer that alternative, of course,” Evie added cheekily. Warsen’s grip on her loosened, and he spun her around and pushed the blade underneath her chin. “You’re taking me hostage? How boring,” she rasped, wincing as the tip of the blade cut the skin at her neck.

“Release her. Now!” Trystan boomed, and his magic, as unruly as it had been lately, seemed inclined to listen to him in that moment as it shot out toward Warsen and jabbed at his left eye.

“Fuck!” The man threw Evie, his strength evident as he slammed her into the table so hard she fell against a chair and broke it on her way to the floor.

Every part of her ached, her wrist was twisted, her head pounded, and her heart still battered against her chest so painfully that each breath was a struggle. Blood and sweat mingled on her skin as she swiped over her face with shaking fingers.

Trystan took in the sight of her on the floor, then found her attacker with wild eyes. He paused, frozen for a moment as he scanned the man who had hurt her, but it was Warsen’s hands, with a few of her curls twined about his fingers from when he’d yanked on her hair, that seemed to break The Villain.

He caught Otto’s son by the neck and slowly backed the man up toward the wall, his fist raised, setting him up for a fatal blow.

“Don’t!” Evie cried, bursting forward with strength she didn’t think she had, gripping his wrist tight with both hands. “You can’t kill him.”

The Villain didn’t look at her; he kept his dark eyes on Warsen’s son. But the fool must have had a death wish, because he was grinning. “Would you look at that, Villain? I think your wench likes me.”

Evie sighed. “Bastard.”

She released her boss’s wrist and stepped back as he punched his fist straight at the man’s head. Her attacker slumped over, instantly unconscious.

Not an unappetizing state of being at the moment.

Trystan’s voice was rough. “Now may I kill him?”

Her energy was sapped, the adrenaline fog fading, and everything suddenly was heavy, including her eyelids. “No, we—we need to question him first. Then you can hang up whatever body parts you want.” Her hand found the nearest surface to steady her—it was the window. Something about the window…?

Everything felt fuzzy.

“Sage?”

“Ssssssir,” she said, but the word was slurred, her eyes processing the colors in the room so rapidly she thought the ground was shaking.

“Marv, Min! Take the prisoner to the dungeons and double chain his restraints.” Her boss boomed the order with an authority Evie aspired to, and she watched in a dreamlike haze as the two Malevolent Guards shuffled in, gripped the intruder by the wrists, and dragged his prone form from the room.

“Can I question him”—she paused to catch her breath, her hands falling to her knees—“with you?” In the next moment, she was folded into strong arms, cinnamon and warmth and everything right in the world pulling her into the safest embrace she’d ever experienced.

A hand clutched the back of her head, gentle but steady, unyielding in its support as she was well and truly held.

“Sir, are you…hugging me?” she asked as floaty black spots formed over her vision.

“Yes. I am.”

“Oh, good. I thought it was just the concussion.” Her legs gave then as the last of her survival mode dwindled into heavy exhaustion. But she was caught, a strong hand gripping the back of her legs. “How did you know I was in trouble?”

“The gilded tattoo burned the fuck out of me,” he murmured.

“I thought you were ignoring it,” she whispered, clutching at him tighter.

He shook his head. “I’d never. Even if all the magic in the land seeped from the ink on my skin and yours. If you’re hurt or in danger, I will find you. I swear it.”

That assurance made her eyes close.