Chapter 46

The Villain

Trystan supposed there was only so far you could bend something before it broke, and he was broken, shattered, when his lips settled on Evie's mouth. Both of his hands landed on the sides of her face, cradling her head gently in a stark contrast to the fervent kiss.

He would regret this—losing control, giving in to it, in to her . He'd resisted. He'd hoped and willed away the desire to be near her, willed away wanting her. But she was inevitable, from the moment he first saw her and every moment since.

He loved her. It was a never-ending echo that he'd vowed to never say aloud. And surely later, when the kiss ended, when he pulled away and made his awkward excuses, stumbling over his words to avoid the truth, he would loathe himself for taking this taste of her.

But not now.

Now, he would simply enjoy it, pouring every ounce of love he couldn't say into this moment, this woman, this kiss. She hadn't moved, hadn't pulled away—hadn't kissed him back, either, come to think of it, and this gave him such pause he ripped his lips from hers.

How could he do this? He'd probably frightened the wits out of her. She was rigid beneath his hands. He took a large step back, leaning away from her. "Sage," he breathed. "I'm sorry—"

"It came true," she said, looking at him in a daze. "I didn't think it ever would."

He was struck by the words, but he couldn't figure out why. "What do you mean?" Her eyes flicked to the window, to the stars, and then he remembered. That first week. The late night in his office. Her wish.

I'll let you know when it comes true.

He couldn't fathom what she was saying, what her words meant. His usually organized, efficient brain was jumbled. "You wished for— Your wish was—"

She dove toward him, pressing her lips back against his. His eyes widened for a moment, watching as she clutched for his shoulders like she needed something to hold on to. Like she needed him .

And this time, he froze.

This is, quite honestly, the worst game of tag ever played.

But when she hummed against his lips, any remaining frigidness thawed.

Only heat remained.

I'll let you know when it comes true.

A low sound built in the back of his throat as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. What had started as gentle passion turned wild with wanting. He'd been built to covet his control, and this woman seemed to be built to unravel it.

And he let her.

She clutched at the back of his head, playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, and it felt so. Fucking. Good.

In answer to her, he gripped her hair, tugging quickly but gently until her neck was exposed. When he opened his eyes, he found that her light eyes were darkened, her lids only half open.

His lips found purchase against her pulse, peppering small kisses there, and all the while, he listened for her cues. Making sure this was all right—that she was all right.

He bit lightly into her skin, and she gasped, sighing once more when he soothed the spot with his tongue.

Too far , his mind warned. You're going too far.

He didn't care. He was drowning in her, drunk on her. He wanted to live here, kissing her for the rest of his days, the rest of his life—and suddenly, it wasn't enough. He needed more. His mouth returned to hers, and he almost growled in relief when their lips met. Bending low, he gripped the backs of her knees and hoisted her up, placing her gently on her desk and moving between her thighs.

The black gown was pushed up just over her knees. He gripped each of her thighs, feeling them through the soft fabric of the dress, committing their shape to memory. For when he was buried beneath the dirt, when he no longer reigned as the villain of this land, he would have this one memory to carry him.

Without breaking their kiss, he began to trace her body, starting at her neck, where he swirled a finger until he was torturing himself. He dipped lower, running a careful hand over one of her breasts. She gasped, and he kissed her harder.

But the urgency within him slowed, and he reached up to cradle her face again. He kissed her tenderly, like he dreamed of nightly, like he'd always wanted to, like he'd imagined doing ever since the first time he saw her in Hickory Forest. With her soft hands and her amused smile. Her gentle defiance.

It was at this moment, of course, when he was savoring her—when he wasn't ready to stop and reflect on what he'd just done, the line he'd just crossed—that a voice called defensively from beyond her partially closed bedroom door: "Who's in there? I have a weapon!"

They were caught.