Chapter 47

Evie

Evie was not one for melodramatics (yes she was), but she did startle rather easily. So, when a voice shattered the most erotic and passionate moment of her young life, she screamed. Very loudly.

The door was yanked open, and a man stood in the entry. It was impossible to make out his features in the dark hall, but it didn't matter. Trystan had already begun to charge at him, though the man was gone before Trystan reached the doorframe. "Stay here, Sage!" he yelled.

She snorted. "Yeah, right."

She hopped off the desk, landing on shaky legs. Weak in the knees—he'd made her weak in the knees with one measly kiss.

The real issue being, there was nothing measly about it.

Still trying to catch her breath, she grabbed one of the candles from the side table and rushed down the hall after them. The intruder had sought cover in her father's study, but the boss did not relent, following in after him and tackling the man to the ground, hands tight around his throat.

There was a fire lit in the hearth, which was odd, considering she'd assumed her old home abandoned. The room was warm, though, despite the terrible events that had occurred in it. She fought the chill in her heart even as she felt her cheeks heat. "Sir, are you— Hey!" She knew the man below him—knew him immediately.

"You blithering nincompoop!" Trystan screamed in the man's face, releasing his neck with a ragged sigh. "I could've killed you."

The man went to his knees, coughing and rubbing at his throat. "Well, that's not so out of the ordinary for us, is it, brother?"

Malcolm Maverine hadn't changed much, save for the once long and lustrous brown locks now shorn close to his head. He was still broad shouldered, still carried an easily amused expression, and still seemed to annoy the ever-loving shit out of his older brother.

"Malcolm, I don't mean to be rude or a poor host," Evie started, extending her palm toward him, "but what are you doing in my house?"

Malcolm rubbed his head, taking her hand and standing. "May I pour us all a drink before I tell you? I fear it's far too painful to reveal without liquid courage." He went to a sideboard that she didn't recall being there before and poured three glasses full.

A drink was just the ticket. It would allow her body to catch up with her mind, though both parts of her seemed to agree that she was still upstairs, still kissing Trystan, The Villain, her boss . The kiss had been entirely mutual, though he'd been the first to pull away, and then she'd promptly…mauled him. But he'd seemed to enjoy the mauling. He'd seemed to enjoy her —but there was so much distance in his expression, she'd begun second-guessing it all.

Yes, a drink. She took the glass of amber-colored liquid from Malcolm and downed it in one gulp, then could not keep herself from coughing. "Oh, that's disgusting!"

Malcolm frowned. "I'm afraid it's all I have left of the Redbloom Tavern."

She cringed, feeling mildly guilty at the thought that if this was the last of that horrendous liquor, it was rather a good thing. Trystan remained off to the corner, arms crossed over his chest, his face stony. He was silent and barely looking at her.

It was terrible.

But Malcolm's words caught up with her. "Wait, what do you mean? What happened to the Redbloom Tavern?"

Trystan carefully took his drink from Malcolm's hand and downed it in three long sips. He didn't flinch. Unbelievable. "Lose it in a game of cards, Malcolm?"

Malcolm glared at the accusation, finishing his own glass and refilling hers, which she hadn't asked for, and under any other circumstance, she would have refused—the stuff tasted like copper-tinged medicine—but it was warming her gut and washing away her frenzied overthinking of that kiss. She took another large swig.

"I lost it because of you, Tryst," Malcolm said quietly.

The boss went rigid. "What do you mean?"

"When they found out The Villain was my brother, people stopped coming. Never mind that I have no association with you or your business. The Maverine name was enough for them to hate me. A few nights ago, I was away, and a group of retired Valiant Guards banded together and burned it to the ground. It's…gone."

Her heart twisted at the pain in Malcolm's voice. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Malcolm. That's evil."

The boss's face flinched like he'd been struck, and she regretted her words almost instantly, knowing how he'd take them. She took another sip of the horrid drink; her head felt lighter, floaty. It would be wise to put it down.

She didn't.

"I will pay for you to rebuild. Wherever you wish," Trystan said quietly. He offered it readily, humbly, with a downturn of his head, like he was submitting to his transgressions with utter defeat. "I'll help you stock the finest liquors, the best mead, the richest wines. Whatever you want, it's yours."

Malcolm laughed without humor and without patience. "As much as the offer tempts me, I have no interest in rebuilding an establishment the public is only going to scorn or use as kindling. It's okay, Tryst, really. I knew it wouldn't last. There's no need to atone for it."

Trystan didn't take this well. She could tell by the way his shoulders fell, like he'd defeated one demon just to be battered by another. "Allow me to apologize, then, for your having to suffer me as a brother."

Malcolm stepped forward, reaching up and placing a hand on Trystan's shoulder, cockiness slipping away to reveal familial sincerity. "I assure you, there's no need to apologize for that, either."

She almost died for the sweetness of the sentiment, watching in the corner like a creepy spectator. Until she heard, "Sage, for the love of the gods! Are you crying?"

Her drink sloshed in her glass as she waved her arms around. "What do you want from me? This is cute!"

Malcolm laughed, and then the boss did, too—smaller than Malcolm's, but she saw the dimple, so there was no need for complaints.

"Oh," Malcolm said with a snap of his fingers. "As for my rather unorthodox entrance, Evie, I was looking for a place to hunker down for a little while. I'd heard from local gossip that your house was vacated, so I thought it would be safe to lay low here until I figure out my next move. I'd hoped you wouldn't mind. I'd actually sort of hoped you wouldn't find out at all."

She smiled and patted Malcolm's cheek. "I don't mind. Please stay here as long as you like, but you're of course welcome to come join us at the manor. Clare is residing there, too; I'm sure she'd like your company."

Malcolm's light-brown eyes widened. "Clare is staying with you? Our sister Clare? Next thing you know, unicorns are going to be giving birth to rabbits."

Trystan gave Malcolm a pointed look before uttering one word: "Tatianna."

Malcolm digested the information immediately with a decisive snort. "I should've guessed."

Licking her still-swollen lips, Evie pulled the piece of frame from her pocket. "We came here looking for a painting of my mother's. Have you happened to see it around in your time here? It's an outdoor landscape with two little girls playing."

Malcolm gasped. "Oh, yes! There's a few in the small cupboard off your kitchen. I'll fetch it for you." He flew out the door, and for a moment it was just her and Trystan again.

The air grew thick, his eyes roving every inch of her face until he landed on her lips. He lurched forward and halted like he had to physically hold himself back from her, like he wanted her too badly to move. Evie had never felt so overcome in her life.

But then Trystan slammed himself back against the wall when Malcolm stormed in, portrait in hand. It was in a gilded frame with one corner missing.

"This is it!" she exclaimed, her focus now completely on the painting. She brushed a finger down the rough canvas and stepped back to better view the picture. Two young girls, perhaps no older than Lyssa, frolicked in a field surrounded by strange and large-looking plants. Vines twirled around every inch of open space, and the colors were so liberal and vibrant they almost distracted from the people in it. It was obvious her mother was one of the little girls—she looked exactly like Lyssa. Like her sister had been placed right into the art.

Pinned-back braids; round, dark eyes; golden-brown skin; hand clasped with that of the little girl next to her. The other had braids, too, but they were dark red, like fire. Her eyes were a light brown that reminded Evie of toffee, her pale skin was dotted with freckles just across her nose, and she held a gilded gold key in her hand. Evie searched for an artist's mark, an inscription, any clues as to who the redheaded girl was or where this was painted. But there were only two faded F s at the bottom.

She assumed they didn't stand for freaking fucked , but it felt rather appropriate anyway. "Do you know where this is, sir?" She took the portrait from Malcolm and angled it toward the boss.

He squinted hard and rubbed his chin. "I'm afraid not, Sage. I don't recognize it at all. But perhaps someone in town will. We'll ask around."

She shut her eyes tight. She knew exactly what needed to be done, but her bravery wasn't up to the task, her heart not yet healed from the battering it had taken the last time she'd challenged it this way. But emotional scars sometimes demanded to be reopened—to let out the remainder of the pain, to free you from it.

"No, we can't waste any more time," Evie said, a pit of dread pooling in her stomach. "We're working against the clock with the guvres and the manor's wards failing, and there's only one person I am certain will know exactly where this portrait was painted and who this little girl is."

Trystan tilted his head at the artwork, then sent a questioning look to her. "Who?"

"My father."