Page 76 of Adversary to the Villain

When he sauntered out, Trystan was smiling again, shaking his head. “I know it’s not ideal that he’s still becoming a frog at random intervals, but it’s incredible to see him.”

Evie looked back to the portrait for one last look at Trystan’s ancestor, and she was rendered immobile. Because thiswasTrystan. He’d always been quietly kind, protective, and fair.

By the gods, he’d always been a prince, hadn’t he?

There was even a ceramic chalice in his hand, sitting at—

“That’s… Is that the table in the kitchen?” Evie asked, scanning the background of the portrait. “Trystan! That’s the office kitchen.”

“Yes. It is.” He watched her, brow furrowed. “Is that of note?”

Evie walked forward, her body turning jittery, ready to burst. “No, but this is.” She pointed to the stained-glass window painted behind the king. The one she saw every day. The one they’d found the prophecy written upon in the sunlight. A bright sun, shining down on…nothing.

Just a patch of empty grass. “Trystan,” Evie said in awe. “Look.”

Indeed, there was no book of Rennedawn in the stained-glass window.

Because it lay on the counter…in front of it.

Chapter 36

Trystan

When Trystan first became The Villain, he took pleasure in very few things.

Massacre Manor became his haven, where he went to lick his wounds, gathering himself and training to rise until he was a force Benedict could not ignore.

And he’d accomplished it. Over the years, Benedict had sent Valiant Guards, private assassins, and mercenaries to capture him. To kill him. All of them had failed.

He took pleasure inthat.

Trystan turned the key in the lock but didn’t open the door. Instead, he looked down at Sage, noting her pretty white dress, her curls pinned back by a white comb that looked like a dove, a stark contrast against the brilliant rouge on her lips.

And the way she’d straightened her shoulders the moment they stepped down into the dungeons.

“Why don’t you take the lead on this one?” he heard himself say. “You’re perfectly capable.”

Her wide eyes were fixed on him immediately. “No, that’s, uh—that’s okay. I’ll just observe.”

“No, you won’t. I won’t let you.”

“Let me?”

He knew it would infuriate her, had been banking on it. He fought to keep his face impassive.

“You don’tletme do anything,” she continued. “I make my own decisions.”

“Really?” Trystan challenged, backing her up to the wall. “Because you always want to join me for torture interrogations. I would say you’ve even beeneagerat times. And now you prefer simply to observe?Doyou make your own decisions? Or are you influenced instead by what you’re afraid of?”

Her irises were two blue flames as she stared back at him; all the while, he smirked like the bastard he was. “And what, pray tell, am I afraid of?” she asked.

“That no matter your role in the story, you’ll never be enough.”

The force of her magic rammed into him so hard, he stumbled back. Angry tears formed, but she blinked them away, that spark within her flashing to the surface.

“Fuck you.”

There you are, little tornado.