Assistant to the Villain (Assistant to the Villain, #1) (89)

In all fairness, Trystan had spent most of his life not talking to Arthur. It wasn’t just that Arthur had spent most of Trystan’s childhood traveling to different places, using the core healer abilities where he was needed. Trystan’s mother, Amara, had told Trystan and his siblings that it was selfish for them to keep Arthur with them when there were so many who needed his help. It was comical to Trystan now, how that need never seemed to matter if it was coming from Arthur’s children.

By the time Clare was born, Arthur had begun to slow down, spending more time at home in their seaside village. Trystan was older, so most of Arthur’s attention was spent on Trystan’s younger siblings. Amara Maverine was not a cold woman, but she was not an affectionate one, either. She did not see the sense in hugs or comfort when the world was so much harsher than that. It was something that Trystan was grateful for—it saved him from the feeling of rejection.

Arthur had taken a softer approach with Clare and Malcolm upon his return, but he must have assumed it was too late for Trystan. At the beginning, it had stung when Trystan would try and bond with Arthur only to be met with disinterest. But Trystan slid back into the patterns he had been raised with quickly, almost to preserve himself. He didn’t need affection; he didn’t need people to show they loved him; it was a waste of time. It was wasted on him.

In the end, it hadn’t mattered anyway. By the time Arthur made tentative steps to build a relationship with Trystan, it was too late. But that hadn’t stopped Arthur from trying, over the years, to send letters, to attempt meetings. Trystan had ignored every single one.

At least his siblings’ hope of redemption for him had finally died, and they were far more tolerable to be around. His mother’s hopes, he knew, had died, too, but that was a whole other brand of torture to subject himself to; later, perhaps. No, right now he would allow himself this small sliver of happiness, if that’s what the warmth creeping through his chest felt like.

In fact, he’d wring this moment of every ounce of joy he could.

Quickly standing, Trystan watched Sage’s face turn up toward his, eyebrows raised in confusion. “What are you doing?” Her eyes widened when she saw him reach out a hand for hers.

“Would you like to dance?”

Her eyes widened even more, but a small smile graced the red bow of her lips.

“With whom?” She looked around theatrically.

Trystan smirked, because in all truth, she was very funny. “With me.”

Sage gripped his hand and let him pull her to her feet. When he bent his neck to take her in, he was knocked breathless by her joy aimed at him full force. It was so foreign to have someone so happy in his presence, or even because of his presence, that he almost missed a step.

“I’m not really certain how to dance with another person.” She scrunched her nose and stared at their clasped hands. “Usually, I just spin in circles until I get dizzy.”

“Well—” He’d miscalculated. The music, which had been a lively and spritely tune, had sobered into something slower, more intimate. He’d tortured many men over his ten years in this business. For information, for making him angry, for trying to kill him, and he’d been loath to admit it…but he even did it once because he’d seen a man being cruel to a duck.

It had been a bonus to find out the man was a retired Valiant Guard, but that was neither here nor there.

This was a different sort of torture, one he’d never experienced before. He’d become so good at not wanting anything above what he could take—but this woman was not a possession. She was a person he greatly admired and respected. Someone he relied on more than he’d ever thought possible.

Someone to whom he would never admit any of this.

You get this one happy moment, he reminded himself.

Without hesitating, Trystan placed his other hand on the small of her back, guiding her into his embrace. Her breath hitched, and Trystan could feel the warmth from her skin through the silken fabric of her dress. Clearing his throat, he brought their clasped hands up and began gliding them in slow steps.

“So, you dance?” Sage asked, her face tilting up to his. It was closer than he thought, and when he looked down, he saw why: she was dancing on the tips of her toes.

“I learned years ago when I worked for—” He cut off, not because he didn’t want to finish his sentence but because just then, Trystan caught sight of a familiar face in the crowd across the bridge.

“What is my sister doing here?” The Villain asked in confusion.

“Clare’s here?” Sage whipped her head to where he looked, but neither of them stopped swaying or staying linked together. The wheels of her brain were turning a mile a minute—he could tell by the look in her eyes. “You don’t think the traitor could be…”

He interrupted before she could get the thought out. “I’ve had my guards tailing both of my siblings since the bomb incident. They have both been accounted for at the traitor’s every turn. They hate me, certainly, but it is not either of them trying to take me down.”

“I don’t think they hate you,” Evie said quietly as he moved them into a gentle spin.

“You can’t know that.” Trystan wouldn’t look at her. Instead, he found one of the lights behind them and kept his gaze glued there.

“But I do.” She pressed the tip of one shoe onto his until he looked at her. “I know that love between siblings. They have it for you; it’s quite obvious.”