Page 93 of Accomplice to the Villain

“Kindly escort The Villain and his lovely apprentice to the lovers’ suite.”

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

No. This isn’t happening.

“The Villain has won a night with The Wicked Woman!”

Yes. It is.

Chapter 50

Evie

Evie supposed there were worse things in life than spending a night alone with her boss. The Mystic Illness, for one, bedbugs for another, and surely a night with The Destroyer would have qualified for the list—somewhere near the top. Double underlined. Kingsley’sDestroyedsign was the cherry atop a perfectly ridiculous evening. She giggled at the memory as the lovers’ suite door shut behind them.

“Is something about this funny to you?” Trystan asked. Clearly, the night had given its best effort to undo him. His silk pants had a tear at the knee, and his once well-groomed hair was an irreparable mess. The shadows under his eyes that had been mere smudges of purple at the beginning of the evening seemed to have darkened his entire face in the span of a few hours.

“Do you think his parents named him that?” Evie asked, fiddling with the ties at the back of her dress.

The Villain watched her hands with trepidation, but he responded with pinched confusion. “Who?”

“The Destroyer!” she clarified. “Do you think his parents named him that? Or perhaps it’s a family name?”

“Sage, there is no way on the gods’ earth that ridiculous moniker was his given name.”

“Are you truly one to judge ridiculous monikers?” she questioned, ducking when a pillow from the bed flew across the room, nearly smacking her upside the cheek. “I’m only teasing!” She raised her hands in surrender. “Lighten up. It could be worse!” She was tempted to mention the possibility of bedbugs but decided against it when she saw the look of agonizing pain etched into his features.

“There’s no cause for alarm,” she assured him. “We’ll get through one night, and Lord Fowler promised to release us in the morning. He’ll hand over the wand, and we’ll continue our merry little journey. Huh.” She noted, “There’s a mirror on the ceiling.” When she looked back down, her mouth formed a little O. “Sir, are you well?”

“No.”

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

He banged his head against the wall, alarming her further.

“It’s just a mirror, for goodness’ sake. You don’t need to look at it. But I wonder: Why would they put it on the ceiling?”

“Because, Sage,” he gritted out, “some people enjoy watching.”

“Watching what?” Her gaze lifted back to the mirror when she realized. “Oh…”

“Are you sufficiently shocked?” he deadpanned, waving a hand toward it in disgust.

“I’m sufficientlyintrigued,” she admitted, tilting her head to the side now.

There would need to be an investigation at some point to find how The Villain managed to make such strange sounds. This one was a cross between a roar and the echo of a wounded goose.

“Don’t tell me that.”

Really, the man had seen people’s guts spilled out onto the floor, but this was what turned him into a blushing adolescent?

“I’m going to remove my sandals,” she warned, carefully moving to the ties going all the way up her calves.

“Why are you telling me that?”

“Because my ankles are about to be fully exposed, and I don’t want to give you a stroke.”

“Don’t confuse my manners for a lack of depravity, Sage. It’s a courtesy to you and self-preservation for me that I remain restrained.”