Page 78 of Accomplice to the Villain

And also ugly.

A whistle sounded, and Trystan whirled at the noise, hoping to see Sage, but that hope deflated when his eyes locked on Tatianna, though she was lovely as always. He peered at his sister out of curiosity and watched with begrudged amusement as Clare slowly wilted into a besotted, lovestruck fool.

“All right there, little sister?” Trystan asked casually. “Would you like a handkerchief for the drool?” He handed her the leaf-green cloth from his pocket.

“Ha. Ha.” She ripped it from his hand and squinted down at it. “I haven’t seen this color before. Is it new?”

Trystan felt a blush creeping up on his cheeks. Or blood—not blush—it was blood in his face. That sounded better.

No, it didn’t.

“No.” He swiped it from her, shoving it back in his pocket. “It’s not new.” It was. He’d had to special order it yesterday. The color was difficult to pinpoint.

Tatianna reached the bottom of the staircase and preened, turning left to right. “What do you think? Do I resemble one of the office pixies?”

Clare’s entire mien read tortured. “I have seen the office pixies, and they do not look like that at all,” Clare said.

“It’s true,” Trystan uttered. “Tatianna is much taller.”

Tatianna stared at him, and Trystan felt a twinge of self-consciousness. “Tryst.” There was a patronizing air as she patted his shoulder. “That was actually funny.”

“Compliments are usually negated when you add the word ‘actually,’” he grumbled, shouldering off her hand and turning away with a huff and roll of his eyes. Internally, he was quietly growling in frustration that his sense of humor had cropped up when Sage wasn’t there. Would it have made her laugh? Would she have teased him?

Would he ever pick himself off the floor and muster what was left of his godsforsaken pride?

Severed heads. Murder. Rage. Revenge—

“There you are, Evie!” Clare called, and Trystan stubbornly planted his feet on the polished wood floor, determined not to turn, determined not to care what creature Fowler had bestowed upon Sage.

A unicorn,Trystan tentatively hoped. There was nothing remotely sexual about a unicorn. Surely his depravity didn’t extend to being attracted to someone with a horn stuck in the middle of her forehead. Hardly as alluring as Trystan, who had two rising from the sides of his head.

“Sage, hurry up and let’s get this over with.” Trystan checked his wrist, and Kingsley leaped to his shoulder, wearing a tiny court jester hat atop his crown. The bells jingling in Trystan’s ears were akin to nails scratching against concrete.

The traitorous frog held up two signs.

No

Timepiece

?

Never mind, the question mark made three.

“You’re not helpful,” he growled, keeping his head pointed toward the room where guests were amassed, the buzz of social enjoyment making his brows draw together in contempt.

There was a light clicking sound against the stairs as Sage descended, and Trystan had an internal war within a matter of seconds.If you look at her now, it will be quick, like ripping off a bandage…or a fingernail.But the longer he waited, the longer he was displaying that he was in control of himself and the miniscule amount of emotion he carried.Oh, this is ludicrous. She’s one person!He was a living legend of evil.

A living legend of evil who locked eyes on her and felt a brick thrown into his skull. Metaphorically speaking, of course, but the pain level seemed an apt comparison. He had the authority to say so—he had been hit by a brick before, and it did fucking hurt.

But this, incredibly enough, hurt more.

Her hair was loose, cascading down until it brushed the tops of her hips, her warm, dark tresses catching the candlelight. The pearls and shells pinned throughout the mass of raven-colored locks gleamed. Theysparkled. But her hair wasn’t even the whole of it; the gown she wore clung to every curve, a clear mesh revealing large patches of soft skin. The skirt looked like it had been sewn together with bits of fishing net—hardly enough to cover the fronts of her thighs and certainly not enough to cover the sides of them.

The netting climbed, ending at the wide part of her hips. His hand itched at his side, and he slapped it against his leg as if it had fallen asleep.

But nothing in his body was asleep at this moment.

She pulled her thick locks behind her shoulders, revealing that the skirt was attached to a small scrap of fabric in the middle of her stomach. He followed the line of fabric up and up until it stopped, covering her breasts. Trystan was suddenly grateful that he was having such a violent reaction to her; if he didn’t, it would surely mean he had fallen over dead.