Chapter 4

The Villain

Trystan had never believed death to be beautiful.

It was logical in his mind, necessary—even enjoyable, if the person very much deserved it. But never beautiful, never so achingly difficult to look at that his entire body froze, his muscles tightening so hard that they pulsed beneath his flushed skin. Never so painful that his brain could not connect the pieces of what he was looking at.

For on the marbled white table before him, in the small room with stone walls and dim, flickering light, lay his assistant, Evie Sage.

Dead.

Shock settled in the marrow of his bones, in the startled stiffness of his legs. His eyes were burning again, but not from the light. From the pain . Move , his mind ordered Sage, but she lay still, unnaturally so. More still than he'd ever seen her. A woman who had always been buzzing with erratic energy, her mouth never tiring of the words that spilled out—and now he waited for them to say something, anything.

But her red-painted lips were closed in a flat line, unexpressive. So unlike her, it was startling. Impossible .

He took a shaky step forward, ignoring the creak of the wooden door behind him and the clanking of armor that followed.

"I'd hoped to spare you this, as a final kindness." So at odds with the merciful words, Benedict's voice was dripping with disdain. But Trystan wouldn't turn, couldn't give Benedict his attention.

His eyes were on Sage, on the way her black hair was artfully spread around her, like an ethereal halo of curls, with small, colorful flowers placed throughout it. A lump formed in his throat as he stepped forward, his emotions hidden behind a wall of disbelief. Until he saw them.

Black-and-purple fingerprints around her throat.

He shut his eyes tightly. His fists clenched so hard at his sides that his nails broke through the blisters in his palms.

Benedict spoke again, closer this time. "Worry not, my dear boy."

Trystan sucked in a deep inhale.

"She didn't suffer… much ."

His eyes flew open. His fists unclenched. An eerie calm settled over his face, and for just a moment, the world was still.

And then that moment was over.

"You bastard !" His voice was guttural as he dove for Benedict, the chains on his wrists suppressing the magic raging beneath the surface, though it was no matter—he had his anger. It was primal, it was white-hot, it was enough . Flames licked at his skin, his heart pounding as he surged forward.

Benedict slammed against the wall, his crown toppling off his head and clattering at Trystan's feet. The king's eyes flared with fear. Good. Trystan knew fear far better than the turbulent emotions ravaging his insides. The guards gripped each of his arms, desperately trying to pull him back, but he was stronger.

He had nothing to lose now.

He closed both hands around Benedict's throat, squeezing as hard as he could manage with his wrists chained and two guards furiously pulling against his tensed biceps. Benedict's eyes widened as he choked, struggling to breathe.

Squeezing harder still, Trystan felt his conscience—small as it was—reemerge. Suddenly, it was no longer King Benedict looking at him; it was Evie. Her sweet eyes brimming with tears, terrified. She was choking, dying. Oh gods.

His hands had never felt more like a danger as he released them, the guards finally managing to yank him backward. Back toward Sage, back toward where she rested. His head angled to the side, taking her in, ignoring the backdrop of Benedict's cursing gasps as Trystan stumbled toward her.

It didn't matter. Nothing did. All he saw was her.

Swallowing hard, he moved until he was right there, dropping to his knees beside her.

"Sage," Trystan said on a whisper. "Sage, wake up." He scanned her face. Her eyes were closed, dark lashes laying gently against the tops of her cheeks—cheeks that were pale without their usual rosy hue. "I command you as your employer to wake up."

He could feel his blood pumping harder through his body, felt it accelerate further still when his mind finally connected the truth to this reality. Sage, Evie, the woman who owned the entirety of his blackened, tattered heart, was well and truly gone.

A hot rush of liquid burned behind his eyes. "That's an order, Sage." He rasped out the command with none of his usual authority. "Open your eyes."

He looked to her hands, both wrapped around a small bouquet of white roses, and he took hold of one. It was like ice, the inked gold employment ring on her smallest finger faded against her skin, all the magic gone. He didn't feel it, couldn't help her. He'd thought the inked bond hadn't glowed against his biceps because of the magic-suppressing cuffs, but that wasn't it at all. It hadn't glowed because there was no life left in it, no life left in her .

As he tried to blink back the hot liquid, a single tear escaped down his cheek. He brought her hand up and laid his lips like a whisper against her knuckles, so light that he knew it would barely be felt, should she still be with him. "I failed you. I'm sorry. Come back."

She didn't answer, wouldn't, and it occurred to Trystan then that he would never hear her voice again. Her excited yells, her infectious laugh, her melodic humming, her jokes, her candor. It was a piece of his world he'd taken for granted, and now it was gone forever.

Just as everyone he encountered, everything he touched, was left ruined.

He'd been so selfish. Since the day he hired her, he'd made her a target. He'd foolishly believed that if he ruined with purpose, it could never happen by accident again. That being The Villain would save him.

Instead, he'd destroyed the one person who'd looked past it all, who'd not only truly seen him but who didn't flinch when she did.

Gods, he would never forgive himself for this. Never.

Sir Seymore took his arm in a viselike grip, but he barely felt it. Two more guards joined in, and then another two. It took that many people to drag him away from her. He yelled until his voice was raw, bucked and flailed against their hold, but he wasn't strong enough. Not anymore.

Still, he kept fighting anyway, fighting until he couldn't, until his weakened limbs gave and his vision went spotty, until all he saw as he was dragged through the doorway back toward his open cell was the last remaining knight, the one with the familiar eyes.

And he was mouthing something.

Something that looked suspiciously like the word "hope."

It was so strange that it distracted Trystan from his despair. He furrowed his brow as the knight disappeared behind the closing door.

Hope? Why would a Valiant Guard want The Villain to have hope?

It didn't matter. Hope would do nothing. Evie Sage was dead.