Page 46 of Adversary to the Villain

Staring at them longingly was clearly a less pathetic option.

“Quiet down and eat your scone, Evil Overlord,” she encouraged gently, then bit into a strawberry, licking at her lips. He fisted his hands and took a bracing breath, lest Winnifred sense where his thoughts had gone this time. “Outdoor breakfast has begun.”

“Where is the frog?” Winnifred murmured, her curiosity appearing to be the only crack in her mouselike demeanor. He wondered if her character had been born of innate wariness, or if it had been instilled in her as Trystan’s had.

By his heinous mother.

Tatianna laughed into her hand, her eyes strained and uncomfortable. “About that…we have some…news, Trystan.”

“But it can wait until after we’ve eaten,” Clare added quickly.

“That’s the last of the locks,” Winnifred said, standing to brush off her skirts. The purple smudges under her eyes were stark against her skin. “I’m not certain if what I did worked. You’ll have to test them. And there’s no guarantee they will hold if another fading wave of magic hits the manor.”

Trystan stood, holding out his hand to shake hers. “Thank you.”

Winnifred was bewildered by the gesture—it was evident in her widened eyes—but she shook his hand anyway, quietly asking, “Sir, when will you consider the favor I requested?”

“I’ll make the arrangements.” Trystan was attempting amiability, handing her a scone. “I’d urge you to rest a few hours first, then see if you still want to return to my mother’s residence.”

This snapped Clare from her dazed state. “Wait, what? Why on earth would you want to go back to that place?”

“My job is there,” Winnifred responded uncomfortably, eyes darting this way and that. This was a woman who’d been conditioned to find comfort in discomfort. He’d give her this: she’d be sure to find discomfort anywhere his mother resided. “Mistress Maverine has just lost her husband of thirty years. I owe her greatly for all the time she cared for me, and she’ll need assistance with the funeral.”

“The woman had your mother imprisoned for a crime she herself committed. A real saint, that one,” Tatianna grumbled sarcastically, tying her thick hair away from her face with her favorite faded pink bow.

Winnifred tensed, her mouth pinching shut, brows pushed together in frustrated confusion. “Arthur Maverine was the only person to show me kindness since I began my work for them. I’d like to pay my respects to him and help with the funeral. Amara will only allow it if I remain employed with her. Of that, I’m sure.”

Tatianna softened, adept at knowing when she’d pushed too far. “I’m sorry. You clearly have experiences with her I could not possibly understand. It was her I was judging, not you. I apologize.”

Winnifred appeared to respond to apologies just as Trystan did—uncomfortably. Nodding, she turned away to pick up her glittering wand, tucking it into her side. “Try the first lock I did. It’s been sitting with the enchantment the longest.” Then she turned to depart.

Trystan saw a blur of movement from the corner of his eye, near where Winnifred had just passed into shadow underneath the roof’s awning, causing her to yelp. It startled her enough for sparkling magic to shoot out of the wand in small sparks, landing against the roofing above.

It crumbled and fell.

Right toward Winnifred.

A scream sounded through the dawn, and each one of them made to save her, but the blur beat them to it—a green blur, which nose-dived for Winnifred and the falling stone.

The rest was a trick of the eyes—it had to be. For when the stone fell, a brighter light shone, and the crumbling slab of stone was stopped. Not by Winnifred.

Not by Kingsley the frog.

But a human stood there, holding up the wall with both hands as the sparkling green light faded away, revealing who had stopped it.

No. Not Kingsley the frog.

It was Alexander Kingsley.

The human.

Chapter 22

Kingsley

The sun felt different as a man.

The rays brushed his bare skin, his changed body singing in response, suddenly much larger than it was seconds ago. Larger and stronger. Staring down at the frightened woman looking back up at him, he watched as her eyes darted low and then went back up, her pink lips parted, her green eyes wider than any he’d ever seen, the tops of her cheeks turning the color of poppies…or blood.