The Villain

“Do you think you could get one of your hands up my skirt?”

The noise Trystan made behind the gag was meant to be huh? but instead, his all-too-befuddled reply was much closer to “herg?”

“To get the dagger strapped to my thigh,” she clarified, licking her lips and rolling back her shoulders, bringing her chest up at an enticing angle.

He decided it would be easier to blame the sound on his dry throat than the memory of Sage’s breasts that was seared into his brain for all eternity. His heart rate increased, and he shut his eyes to clear the black spots forming at the edges of his vision. When he opened them, Sage was staring at him with a concerned furrow to her dark brows. With a flick of his neck, he motioned for her to slide closer, maneuvering awkwardly to lift the hem of her skirt. She sucked in a gasp, and he pretended not to hear it or the harsh breathing coming out of his flared nostrils.

The sound of the fabric sliding up her leg was far more sensual than it should’ve been, the rustle of cotton against bare skin something he knew would be a source of torment for him later. His calloused fingers slid up the subtle softness of her thigh until they hit the leather strap, and all the while he kept his eyes tightly shut.

It was less likely she’d see the yearning that way.

A muffled cry of victory left his lips when he slid the dagger free, but he nearly dropped it when it burned the daylights out of his hand. Grimacing in pain, he made quick work of cutting his binds and spitting out the gag, then tossed the demon dagger to the ground. “What the blazes!” He held tight to his palm—there was a searing burn there, like he’d put his hand to a hot stove. “Does it burn you every time you touch it?”

She looked at him quizzically, eyeing the burn with a frown. “No, it feels good when I hold it. Like it’s warming me.”

Bracing himself, he gripped the handle and sliced through her binds, dropping the dagger as soon as she was free. “Whatever magic it was imbued with must repel mine.” That, or even weaponry was beginning to turn on him.

Sage rubbed at the rope burn on her wrists, then held her palms out flat. The dagger took the invitation, jumping into her hand like a hound greeting its master. Absurd.

She turned the blade every which way, pouting. “Well, that’s not nice.” “It’s a tool for harm, Sage; it’s not meant to be nice.”

“Shh, it’ll hear you.” She grinned. He sighed.

He went to the bars of the cell, which were rusted and old. They could be easily broken if they were lucky. He looked around the cell for a tool, but the only furniture was a spindly wooden chair and table on the other side of the bars, so brute force would have to do. While he worked on shaking them, a thought struck, and he couldn’t let it go. “When did the scar stop hurting?” he asked casually.

“When I slit Otto Warsen’s throat.” Her voice was detached, and he immediately felt a pit in his stomach—he hadn’t even asked her if she was all right yet. “The scar stopped hurting after that, but now it tingles and hums, like the piece of me the dagger absorbed answers the mark it left on my body.”

“Hmm,” he said, sounding noncommittal—one of his many talents. The metal bars were cold beneath his hands as he angled his neck back. “You shouldn’t have had to kill him.”

Her answer was immediate and succinct. “Oh, believe me, it was my pleasure.”

Chills skittered across his spine like an icy rain, the sensation so jarring that he couldn’t be certain if it was refreshing or unpleasant.

The smell of vanilla and roses drowned out the thoughts in his mind as she came to stand next to him, her hair tickling his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said quietly, a smile on her face he’d begun to recognize as false, as much a mask as the hard lines of his mouth. “I survived. Now, move. Let me try.” She angled her arm up and brought the dagger down. The two metals reverberated off each other, but no breaks occurred, just an unpleasant clanging—and the bars heating the way the dagger had.

Trystan released them with a yelp, shaking out his hands. Sage winced, dropping the dagger to grab his hand, but when she stepped forward, her

heel caught on the discarded rope that had once bound his wrists. Her foot slipped, hitting the weakest part of his ankle and bending it as they both grappled for balance and failed.

Sage fell first, and he fell after her. On top of her.

Her body was warm and curved beneath his, his hard muscle flush with her softness. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, gasping. “Did I crush you?”

Her lids were drooped, her eyes on his mouth. He should move—she was likely still under the effects of the flower, and Trystan’s brand of villainy in no way extended to women who were too inebriated to know what they were doing. He’d sooner sever his hands from his wrists.

But he was too late.

The door to the basement cellar flew open and slammed against the wall, causing his body to curl protectively over her.

“I heard we caught The Villain! And— Oh, am I interrupting?”

This wasn’t one of the deep voices from before but a light, slightly raspy voice, whose next words made Sage go rigid beneath him. “Evie, is that you?”

A young woman stood in the doorway. Her dark-brown brows arched against golden-brown skin, radiant as she stepped out of the shaded doorway and into the dimly lit space. Her eyes were the color of burnished gold and lined with kohl, giving them a catlike appearance, and her long brown hair—even longer than Evie’s—was pin-straight and shiny as she pushed it behind one ear.

Sage shoved him, and he moved immediately, helping her to her feet. His assistant stared at the woman, mouth open. “Helena?”

Helena, the woman in question, stretched her lips into a full, menacing grin.

“It’s been a long time…little cousin.”