Assistant to the Villain (Assistant to the Villain, #1) (106)

“She went home,” Tatianna said. “She needed to rest.”

Yet again, his fear flared like a fast boil. “Was she all right? What did—”

“She was fine. Little progress was made, but she didn’t seem discouraged. I sent her home with the dagger.”

“What?” he roared.

“In its box!” Clare added, rolling her eyes. “You are worse than when we were children, with this mother-hen thing.”

“I am not…a mother hen,” he gritted out.

Blade’s ears looked perked, but he became very distracted when Ms. Erring appeared, moving across the floor to her desk, her severe bun yanking her features tight.

“Evie was fine.” Clare put a hand on Trystan’s arm. The warmth from their childhood came through in the gesture, right past his skin and bones and shooting straight for his soul.

Tarnished as it was.

Gods, he was turning into a sap.

“You should tell her what the gold mark is, Trystan,” Clare murmured quietly.

Tarnished indeed.

“It’s not right to have her agree to something like that without understanding what it is.”

“It doesn’t affect her at all,” he argued, fearing that the first good thing he’d done in years was an atrocious overstep.

He’d sincerely intended to give her the employment bargain, which, if she broke the bonds of his trust, would seep into her body like a poison. He’d only known her a day at the time, so there was no reason to veer down any other path…but then there were her eyes.

They were so honest, so open. They made him feel…afraid. So many things could happen to her, so many people she could trust who could turn around and destroy her. He’d hated at the time that it mattered, couldn’t figure out why this woman with a loud voice and a plethora of energy could evoke such strong protectiveness.

So instead of the green ink used in employment bargains, he’d used the gold, because unbeknownst to the public, its main purpose was protection. It warded against the strongest of evils, and when she’d face them, he’d know. He’d had the same gold ring placed around the circumference of his biceps, so that when she faced any true threat of death, it would tell him one way or another. Gold ink was a fickle sort of magic; it catered to its own rhythm, letting him know in different ways when she needed him. The unpredictability was inconvenient, but it was better than nothing.

His gold ring had burned him both times she was exposed to the dagger, when they were menaced by the guvre, and when she was on the parapet with the bomb ticking away, though the effect there was delayed—the magic in the ward was more unreliable after he’d just used so much of his own. Protection magic wasn’t very fond of his. A popular opinion. Each instance of Evie’s peril caused a burning sensation in his arm so great that he felt her pain with her.

He’d justified the practicality, telling himself that knowing when his assistant was in trouble was essential.

And he’d live in that denial if he could.

“No, it doesn’t negatively affect her, but it is permanently on her body.” Clare raised a brow, waiting for Trystan to understand her point.

But he already did, and he knew he was a bastard.

“That aside.” Tatianna leaned closer. “Are you any closer to determining who here is selling you out?”

“It’s nobody in the manor,” he said flatly, feeling more lost and frustrated than ever.

His guards, who had the best kind of loyalty—forced—hadn’t uncovered a single ounce of guilt among his one hundred and two employees. There wasn’t much else to do but turn to his other conclusion: that someone was getting in and out of the manor right under his nose. And it didn’t escape him that the person who’d been doing this always struck hard when he wasn’t there to sense them, to find them, to eviscerate them.

There were just too many variables, and they were no closer to answers.

“I’ll simply murder King Benedict, and then I won’t have to worry about it anymore.” Trystan seemed to be chronically accompanied by a headache lately, and the one person who helped to relieve that symptom had gone home for the day.

“Sounds good to me,” Tatianna said cynically, rolling her eyes when Clare glared at her.

“Killing someone is never the answer.” Clare frowned.

“I admire your moral heart, little sister,” he said. “But killing is often my favorite answer.”

Clare remained quiet for a moment, assessing him with such familiar eyes. “I was surprised to see how much you care for your…employees.” She used a plural word, but they both knew she was referring to a single person. “At first I thought Malcolm was exaggerating.”

“He wasn’t.” Trystan didn’t have it in him to lie. “In fact, I’m sure he understated it.”

Clare nodded. “Well, I hope that—” She halted.

“Sir!” Marvin—Trystan’s favorite, if he had favorites, which of course he didn’t; he was evil—his not favorite guard barreled through the doors, sweat from sprinting up the stairs running down his forehead. “A missive came! Keeley told me to give it to you urgently!” Marvin reached out to hand it off but doubled over his knees to suck in a breath.

“I know.” Blade walked over and slapped Marvin on the back. “Those stairs are their own form of torture.”