Page 92 of Accomplice to the Villain

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?”

“Ha! I got ’im! I got the frog!” A booming voice had them both knocking into each other as they scrambled to stand.

A crowd had formed in the balcony doorway, light spilling out from the library beyond. And standing before them was a man Trystan hated so intensely, his vision burned in bright, angry color.

Granted, he’d never met the man before that moment, but he didn’t need to know much beyond Kingsley gripped in his fist and the hungry, disgusting eyes roving over Sage like she was a morsel up for grabbing.

“I won a night with The Wicked Woman!” he called, licking his lips as his buddies slammed hands against his back, and Sage stiffened beside him, reaching out to grab Trystan’s arm.

“Oh gods.” Sage’s face took on a grayish hue, like all the blood in her body had escaped to parts unknown. “Lord Fowler?” Sage didn’t go to Trystan for aid, and that fucking stung.

He’d been a right bastard to her for the past few weeks, but surely she considered him a safer option for assistance than a relative stranger who had drugged them before forcing them into a hostage dinner party.

He had just saved her from falling to her death, hadn’t he?

Just as Trystan had suspected, Fowler acted in the same lackadaisical manner he always did, taking the fake crown off his head and placing it atop the man holding Kingsley in his large fists.

Trystan imagined those hands pawing at Sage in the dark, and his magic pooled at his feet. He made no attempt to call it back. He wasn’t in the habit of fighting losing battles.

“I’m afraid our friend The Destroyer here won your game fair and square, Ms. Sage.” Fowler clicked his tongue sympathetically, shoving “The Destroyer” toward them.

“Your name is…The Destroyer?” Sage pursed her lips, looking up at Trystan with a bewildered expression. “That doesn’t bode well for me, does it?”

Trystan resisted the urge to retch.

The Destroyer walked toward them, his large boots clanging against the ground until he was a mere foot away from Sage. Close enough.

Trystan slammed his fist into The Destroyer’s stomach before grabbing the hand that held Kingsley and twisting it behind the reprobate’s back until he cried out and released Kingsley right into Trystan’s waiting palm.

“You rutting bastard!” The man flailed in his arms, but Trystan managed to restrain him with one hand with surprising ease for a man of his size. “I won that bitch fair and square.”

Trystan sighed, placing Kingsley into Sage’s palm. “Hold him.” And before another word was spoken, Trystan had gripped The Destroyer by the collar and flung him over the balcony’s edge.

Brushing his hands against his pants, he listened closely as the man screamed the whole way down.

Sage stared at Trystan with a slackened jaw, as did Kingsley, who pulled up a sign that read:Destroyed.

Fowler clapped, laughing jovially as he patted Trystan on the back. “Well done, old friend. He’s broken three of my favorite chairs, and I couldn’t think of a proper punishment.”

Trystan glared, and Fowler had the sense to take his hand away, but not before pushing Trystan toward Sage until they were toe to toe. “And now you claim your prize!”

What?