Page 47 of Adversary to the Villain

Alexander found that much had been altered in him since he’d last been fully human. The chivalry he would’ve displayed, the pride at saving a pretty girl, just wasn’t there. Instead, there was a hollow feeling, perhaps a small amount of relief that the young enchantress hadn’t been squished.

Even though he found her a little more than rude. And insufferably observant.

Note to self: do not save damsels who have attempted extermination by broom.

With a straining rasp that was meant to be a yell, he pushed every muscle he’d forgotten he possessed to the limits, shoving the piece of what he assumed was a rotted section of roof until it slammed onto the ground and crumpled. Fitting, since the world as they all knew it seemed to be doing the same.

“Alexander?” Trystan Maverine, his best friend, his partner in crime. The one who’d kept him safe and sane over the years, a prince in his own right, said his name the way one would call to a spirit with unfinished business, the way one spoke at a grave.

Alexander Kingsley was not yet dead.

But his business was certainly unfinished.

“Deadlands take me now,” Clare lamented hopelessly into her hands, much in the manner she’d done as a child when any task became too difficult.

Alexander wanted to respond. Desperately. Every obnoxiously long sentence he’d been unable to say, every quip he couldn’t complete, every time his rebuttal was so good it was near criminal he couldn’t vocalize it threatened to spill out of him. But his vocal cords were just as unused as the muscles in his arms, and when the adrenaline faded, he couldn’t speak—or stand.

Winnifred, however,couldspeak. And judging by the expletives and the hands covering her face, she was less than pleased with the situation.

Could be because a roof had almost crushed her to death.

Or because Alexander was standing over her—nude.

It didn’t matter. He would never land atop a woman who hadn’t enthusiastically requested he do so, so instead, he flopped on his side, splayed out like a mangled starfish.

Because he was a damned gentleman.

“What in the deadlands!” Tatianna’s melodic voice called out like a hymn, a blur of pink darting for him. “Look at me.” Her fingers closed over his cheeks, holding him in place, hands aglow, feeling for illness beneath the freshly human skin.

Was he not currently looking at Tatianna?

No, prince of fools, you’re still staring at the enchantress frog hater.

Oops. Was he glaring?

You have eyebrows now. Mind them, oaf.

The depth of feeling within him seemed blown to an improbable size. Everything was too big, too bright, too loud. His hands wrapped around his ears, the sun forcing his eyes shut. Then there was something soft draped over him, and murmurs of voices he knew well.

Evie Sage whispered, “Did he pass out?”

Clare coughed and asked tentatively, “Is he dead?”

“By the gods, Clare! Is hedead?” Trystan wheezed.

“It’s a valid question! He’s so still!”

Clare’s defiant response gave Alexander the jolt he needed to exert considerable effort to get his eyes to open, and to his shock, he was no longer flat on the ground of Massacre Manor’s courtyard because his head was cradled by a cushion. The softness was not familiar, but the face hovering over him was one he recognized enough to scowl back.

Winnifred flinched when his eyes found hers, looking ready to disappear into the wall.

Moving to sit up, Alexander gripped his ribs as he spied Trystan standing in the corner, watching him with a careful gaze. And then there was Evie, her expression at war, her eyes darting between Trystan and Alexander with anticipation one typically found on a child in a circus tent.

Then Trystan was walking toward him, and Alexander was suddenly bothered that he was not standing, wanting for once to meet his best friend on equal footing. As he stood, he found his legs were steadier, clad in pants someone had put on him while he’d been unconscious, a loose white shirt hanging from his shoulders to cover his long frame.

Long frame.

He had a long frame.