Accomplice to the Villain (Assistant and the Villain, #3)(77)

“They’re not from Benedict!” she snapped. “Did you take even a moment to notice how none of these letters hold Benedict’s actual signature? Or his wax seal? No? Of course not. But they don’t, because they’re not from Benedict at all.”

Gideon scoffed. “Then who of your acquaintance has the audacity to call himself ‘Leader of All’?”

There was something haunted in Keeley’s expression as she opened her mouth and replied:

“My father.”





Chapter 49


The Villain


The stars in the night sky were beaming down at him when he opened his eyes, as was one Alexander Kingsley, who seemed to have come back to himself far too late to save either Trystan or Sage from injury.

Sage!

He bent his torso up, ignoring the black spots over his vision as he stood on the balcony, stumbling toward the branch she’d been trapped atop.

Gone. It was gone.

“No!” Trystan yelled. “Sage!”

“Down here!” The panicked voice coming from just below the balcony’s edge felt like a sharp syringe that injected immediate relief straight into his pounding heart.

“Gods!” He ran for the railing and marveled at how quickly that relief fled for the hills. There she was, holding tight to a vine hanging out of a crack in the stone, her arms and legs wrapped tightly as it swayed back and forth in the breeze. “What happened?”

She hesitated before speaking, the furrow in her brow absurdly making him want to smile. “Getting over my fear of heights as intensely as possible, apparently.”

He propped his chin up on his palm, resting against the railing in a show of casualness. “How is it going?”

“Oh, well, you know my theory. Can’t be scared if you’re dead.” She shrugged, pretending to let go for a moment.

“Stop it!” He dropped to his stomach, leaning through the balcony’s railing, grabbing at the top of the vine. “All right, you proved your point, little tornado. I’m pulling you up.”

He started tugging, his biceps straining with each pull, but knowing Sage was on the end of it, he pulled harder.

“Oh, this is like a little full-circle moment, isn’t it?” she said as he huffed and tugged and strained.

“How”—he panted—“do you figure”—almost there—“that.”

“You’re usually pushing people off edges, and now you’re pulling someone up one.”

Not someone, he thought.

You.

His power stirred beneath his skin as she came closer, and through the mesh netting at her back, he could see a spark of rainbow color from her scar. Her grip loosened for a second, one hand letting go completely. “Agh!” she cried out, and Trystan felt a sliver of his soul leave his body, likely to never return.

He wondered if, on his deathbed, whatever dark figure came to escort him into the afterlife would be kind enough to relay precisely how many years Evie Sage had knocked from his lifespan. By his mark, he was pushing five.

“I’m okay! My dagger burned my thigh,” she said. Good. This was the one time he’d allow himself a clear mental image of her thighs, the thought of her shapely, smooth skin beneath his hands calming his every nerve ending until pulling her up became second nature. Her hand reached for his, and then he had her over the railing and in his arms, the force of it causing both of them to topple to the ground.

His hands on her cheeks, he scanned every inch of her for injury. “Is anything hurt? Broken?”

“Besides my sense of safety and security?” She leaned one of her cheeks against his chest, breathing heavily. “I’m fine. Just let me catch my breath.”

It was no longer acceptable for his thoughts to be on his apprentice’s thighs, but considering they were draped over either side of his waist, the task was significantly more difficult now.

The warmth of her made everything in him go rigid. And he did mean everything.

Mortifyingly.

“I hate this stupid tree house,” she moaned into his silk shirt, the warmth of her cheek permeating the thin fabric and sinking deep until it hit somewhere in the vicinity of his heart.

“Good. I plan to turn it to ash before the next sunrise.”

“Just be sure Lord Fowler is inside,” she grumbled, and the vibration against his skin sent an unpleasant sensation from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers. Her honest cruelty was startlingly arousing, proving once and for all that Trystan was truly a sinister son of a bitch.

“What happened to playing his game and enjoying ourselves?” he asked with arched condescension.

She raised her head, and his chest felt chilled from the absence of warmth. It was merely a matter of body temperature; it had little to do with emotion. Save for the annoying one telling him to pull her back against him.

“I’d enjoy myself quite thoroughly if Lord Fowler was on fire,” she said quietly, a subtle smirk on her lips.

“Terrible thing to be on your bad side, Sage,” he said flatly, sucking all feeling from his voice as she scooted off him. Out of necessity. She had been inches away from brushing against an appendage that would give a great deal of him away.

She leaned back in, laying a hand on his shoulder to help her stay steady, and he flinched away instinctively. She masked the hurt with a smile, and he hated himself for being yet another person in her life who gave her cause to do so. “You would know, wouldn’t you, sir?”