She’d bit back a sigh as black leather stretched over his thighs when he leaned across the desk—because he threw the body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, not because he had very nice thighs. His eyes never left hers as he’d straightened and carried the man toward the nearest window…and promptly tossed him out.
Evie bit back her gasp, determined to prove herself. Besides, this job was still going wildly better than the last.
Taking a large gulp of air, Evie had held The Villain’s gaze, ignoring her new interest in leather attire or, more dangerously, his thighs. “Very creative disposal method, sir… Could I get you a cup of cauldron brew from Edwin?” The ogre who worked in the kitchen made batches of the brown sludge derived from magic beans every day, along with freshly made pastries. She’d never heard of the drink before, but it enhanced work productivity and seemed to put everyone in a better mood, dead bodies notwithstanding.
The Villain’s lips had tugged upward, his dark eyes dancing with mirth. He wasn’t quite smiling, but it was close enough that her heart pounded in her ears.
“Yes, Sage, you know how I take it.”
She’d not come to work to find another dead body on her desk since then, but that didn’t mean the last few months hadn’t been challenging. For the most part, The Villain tended to be gone a lot, likely villainizing the nearby townsfolk in some manner she didn’t care to dwell on. They’d made a pact of sorts that he’d not pursue his evildoings within her village—or at least she’d taken his grunt as acceptance. But still, something told her even a dead body on her desk was going to be more fun than the mood he was in today.
Because signs of excessive decapitation could only mean one thing: one of his plans had fallen through for the third time in two months.
She heaved another sigh as she approached the endless, winding staircase. Evie stared at it for a moment, wondering why there was enough magic in the walls of this place to move objects on their own and keep the temperature comfortable, but not enough to make the stairs less, well, awful. She shook her head. It would be added to the suggestion box.
Note to self: suggest a suggestion box.
As she began her daily climb, she avoided the door that appeared to her left after the first flight. The door that led to the boss’s personal rooms.
Only the gods would know what he did on his personal side of the expansive and decidedly gloomy stone structure.
Don’t think about his personal life, Evie.
Another good rule for the list she’d been adding to like clockwork since her first day there.
Stop trying to get the boss to laugh, Evie.
Don’t touch the boss’s hair, Evie.
Don’t find torture attractive, Evie.
Don’t tell Edwin the cauldron brew is too strong, Evie.
Her breathing grew labored as she climbed the second story and rounded on the candlelit banisters to the next flight, calves beginning to burn beneath the thick blue skirt that brushed the tops of her ankles.
An echoing scream from the torture chambers in the dungeons below stopped her in her tracks. She blinked for a moment, shaking her head, then quickly continued up the stairs again.
Despite his other obviously nefarious doings, the boss had a strange and confusing set of moral checkpoints that he followed rather diligently—first of which was to never harm innocents, to her relief. His evil was very much the vengeful kind. She also liked that his moral list included treating the women of the world with the same level of respect and esteem as the men. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t much to begin with, but at least the office rules were more consistent than the outside world’s view.
Before she worked for the evil overlord, Evie had spent her days employed by her local village blacksmith, Otto Warsen. Organizing his tools, handing him whatever instruments he required so that he could stay hard at work on the forge. It had been a decent post, one that paid enough for her to support her ailing father and still be home in time to make dinner for him and her younger sister.
Or at least it had been a decent enough position—until it wasn’t.
Evie felt along her shoulder beneath her linen shirt to the raised, jagged scar hidden there. If it had been a normal blade, it would’ve healed properly. But whatever magic had been ingrained into the white dagger was now living beneath her skin like a curse. One so vicious that anytime she felt an ounce of pain anywhere on her body, the scar glowed. A nuisance, since inanimate objects seemed to get in her way at an alarming rate.
If there was something to stumble over, it would surely find her.