Chapter 42

The Villain

The pixies were glaring at him.

Every ten minutes on the dot for the last three hours, he'd heard the twinkle of their wings floating past the crack in his door, which he'd left slightly ajar only so he could hear the goings-on in the office. Certainly not because Sage hadn't spoken to him in three days and he was desperate to hear her voice. Every morning in the days past, she'd enter with a blank expression, placing his cauldron brew as he liked it on his desk, her old, weathered notebook in her hands. The one with sketches of kisses inside. Sketches that made him burn with curiosity, but he couldn't ask her about them. She was painfully—and unnaturally—silent.

It was a welcome change. Delightful, even. He was rather enjoying it, clenched teeth notwithstanding.

She hadn't hummed, hadn't laughed. He hadn't even seen her pop a vanilla candy in her mouth, and he'd been watching her to the point of absolute embarrassment. He noticed everything. When she got up, when her desk shifted, when she played with a lock of hair, when she fucking breathed .

And all he could do was replay her plea all over again.

Please kiss me.

Chivalry wasn't dead, but it ought to be, with the abysmal situations it put him in.

The memory of Sage's quiet request was driving him mad. Had she meant it? Was it the stress of the moment and nothing more…? Did she truly want him? Was that why she was so angry now?

Or maybe the anger was solely due to him steamrolling her into remaining at the manor.

"It doesn't matter," he grumbled, trying to get a hold of himself.

This was why a romantic entanglement was a mistake, always. It led to all this messiness, or worse yet… feelings . Him hurting her when all he'd desired was her safety.

As his assistant. Nothing more.

Trystan had received a raven that morning—a tip that Sage's village was having a festival. It was the perfect time to slip in unnoticed, but he couldn't even rejoice in the victory. He had no one to enjoy it with. Everyone was angry with him. Everyone . His own workers, his own family. Even Rebecka Erring gave him disdainful glances every time she passed him on the floor.

Kingsley, his only remaining ally, sat on his desk, ever the reflection of everything Trystan wasn't. Kind, good, gallant.

The frog held up a sign, this one reading: Beware.

"I don't have time to decipher your codes, Kingsley. Beware of what?" Trystan pulled a hand through his disheveled hair. He'd barely slept the last three nights, and it showed. There were shadows under his eyes and an overgrowth on his chin. He rubbed his tired eyes with his hands, leaving them there to block out the light.

"Sir?" Sage's lilting voice floated in through his cracked door. His hands left his face, and he stood so fast he knocked his chair over. Clumsiness was a trait he'd thought to be completely commandeered by his assistant, but it appeared to be catching.

He picked up his black chair and glared at it. Clearing his throat, he stood up straight, trying to appear unruffled. And failing.

"I was wondering if there was anything you needed me to do to help prepare you for your trip into my village."

She sounded cheerful, which for some reason gave him a horrid feeling. He moved around his desk and fixed his eyes on her face. Her warm black curls were pinned back by two golden butterfly combs, and her white tunic hung over a loose pair of trousers. The combs matched a butterfly pattern painted onto the design of her corset. She looked put together and well rested.

He had a sudden urge to pull the combs out and muss her hair, just to undo her as she did him.

"No, Sage. I believe I have things well in hand."

Kingsley held up two signs behind her back.

A and Mess.

Little traitor.

Sage lifted a brow and folded her arms across her chest, drawing his attention there for a second before he forced his gaze back up to her face. "Well, then," she said curtly, "I suppose you don't need me at all."

His body screamed the contrary.

But it was good. They needed this careful distance between them if they were to have any sort of professional future. If he was going to have any hope of forgetting he'd nearly kissed her in the water cellar—not to mention accomplishing his takeover of Rennedawn without interference—this was for the best.

The pain in his chest would go away.

"I'm taking my carriage; Keeley and Nesma will ride behind me just as a precaution. I'll continue the rest of the way on my own," he finished, though he felt very much like he was being quizzed on an exam he was entirely unprepared for. And by the look in his assistant's eyes…

He'd gotten every answer wrong.

But her eyes were the only place to reflect this. The rest of her face stayed in that nearly perfectly pleasant mien, like she'd stuck a hanger behind her teeth. "Excellent. Well, I hope you have a pleasant trip, and I wish you every success." She moved in a flurry to leave, and all things considered, he was in the clear.

There was no explaining why he lurched forward, though, almost instinctually, to clasp her hand in his. The touch sent a shock through his hand and up his arm, angling right for his heart…and other, less polite places.

She swallowed. "Was there— Is there something else you needed, sir?"

You.

His thoughts were committing treason now, railing against him and everything he was endeavoring to conquer. His feelings, his body, his heart, his memories— they were all warring, and the object of their ire and desire was so close he could count the gray flecks in her irises, buried beneath the blue.

She is your employee , he thought desperately.

But his heart shortened it.

She is yours.

"No!" he yelled aloud. Damn it.

Sage ripped her hand from his, probably because he was acting like he'd just been struck by lightning. She took his outburst as a response to her question, thankfully. Or perhaps not thankfully, by the silent fury in her now-pained expression. "Very well. Have a pleasant evening."

He would have a more pleasant evening ripping off each of his fingernails. But he responded, "I will return successful."

Her eyes softened before she shook her head. "I'm sure you will."

"And how will you spend your evening?" he couldn't help asking.

She clasped her hands behind her back and tilted her head. "Some of the guards invited me to join them for drinks."

He didn't like the airiness in her voice. "Guards? Which ones?"

"Dante, Amar, Daniel…"

"Daniel is a philanderer," he warned.

Sage winked playfully. "Let's hope so."

She shut the door behind her, and he fell back into his chair, squeezing the armrest so hard, a piece of wood cracked off.

Kingsley held up two more signs: Regret This.

"I already do, old friend. I already do."