Accomplice to the Villain (Assistant and the Villain, #3)(82)

Wet, soft skin glistening in the candlelight, a flash of breast just below the line of water, just out of his view. That rosy flush on her cheeks that usually displayed her anger would travel from her head to her toes, from her cheeks, down her neck, down her chest, down her stomach, and perhaps even to— He halted his imagining, not out of morality but rather to hide the chunk of wood he’d just unconsciously ripped out of the chair’s armrest.

“What was that?” Sage asked, water splashing over the edge of the tub. He heard it hit the floor as she moved.

He chucked the piece of armrest into the fire. “Nothing,” he said quickly.

“Do you think you could hand me a towel?” she asked.

Do you think you could gouge out my eyes first?

“Of course,” he said, hardening his voice to match his other appendages.

He moved toward the tub, eyes averted upward, but there was a long-known, deep-rooted problem with good intentions—at least in Trystan’s case. And the problem was that they usually ended badly.

Instead of his eyes locking on the intricate wood carvings and patterns in the ceiling, the memory of the mirror came too late. He was looking right into it, and he saw everything he’d been trying to avoid.

And just as he’d suspected, his imagination was not worth a godsforsaken thing.

For nothing he could conjure could mimic the bare slopes of her shoulders, the damp, dark ringlets of her curls dipping into the surface of the water, the flush of her cheek and the flash of her curved thigh displayed in plain view, her foot propped on the edge of the tub like an artistic display.

For a moment, his mind went blank. It had to.

“Oh, sir! Make sure you watch for—”

The warning came too late, and he was too far gone to listen—or to notice the puddle of water just outside the tub. His foot slid out from under him, and his head banged against the brass rim, forcing him to land flat on his back.

Penance. The gods were giving him penance for moving from villain to peeping lecher.

Sage appeared over him, long hair dripping rose-scented water drops against his forehead, her body just barely concealed by the thin towel that was clinging to her damp skin.

Penance or a reward. It tormented him just the same.

“Gods! Are you all right?”

Yes, he wanted to answer. I, the evilest, most malevolent figure in the land, caught sight of your bare shoulders, and it sent me into a knobby-kneed tailspin. How are you?

“I’m fine. Are you all right?” he said instead.

She looked at him strangely. Of course she did. He was acting like a buffoon.

His assurance had not been convincing enough. She began asking him simple questions.

“What’s my full name?”

“Evangelina Celia Sage.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously.

“I thought you were older,” she supplied.

“What? Why?”

“You just seem as if you were born fifty.”

“Fifty!” he yelled, sitting up so fast Sage fell back onto her arse, the towel riding up to reveal shiny, shapely thighs. “I’m fine. Enough with the questions.” He put an arm out to steady himself and immediately regretted it when his fingers brushed her soft skin, a white-hot shock making his arm tingle and then his lips.

Clearing his throat, he stood and turned his back to her. “Let me know when you’re dressed.”

It was a mere three seconds later that she responded. “You may turn, but I have a problem.” When he turned, he discovered that she was, in fact, not dressed, still wrapped in the small towel clinging to her every curve.

Drop the towel, a sinister voice whispered in his mind. Every ounce of moral fiber he’d been born with was being used now with this woman. By the time he left this place, it would all be gone.

“They never brought me a nightgown—or anything, really—to change into,” she argued. “This is as dressed as I’m going to get. I don’t think that fishnet dress will hold up to a second wear.”

“There has to be something.” He dug within the drawers. Nothing. He opened the cabinet in the corner.

Not nothing.

Most definitely not nothing.

“Wow. That’s a lot of rope.” Sage whistled. “Lord Fowler’s had a good time in here, I gather.”

Trystan slammed it shut, pain in his next exhale. “My shirt,” he barked. “You’ll have to take my shirt.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

No. I’m seconds away from going up in flames. Thank you so much for asking.

“I’ll be fine,” he replied. “Just take it.” He lifted the red silk over his head, handing it to her, trying not to notice the way her blue eyes flared and remained focused on his chest.

He didn’t flex. He was stretching. They were two completely different things.

“Th-Thank you,” she stuttered out before throwing the shirt over her head. It fell well past her knees. Thank the gods for small miracles. He’d never thought Sage’s height, or lack thereof, would be such a boon.

But then she dropped the towel underneath, and he no longer thought of anything involved as a miracle, because if silk did nothing else, it showed everything, and like the reprobate he was, Trystan found his eyes stuck to her chest. Sage noticed, because of course she did. She noticed everything he didn’t want her to. It was her special skill—along with the nonsense wheels in her mind and making inappropriate shapes with the milk in his cauldron brew.