Assistant to the Villain (Assistant to the Villain, #1)

by Hannah Nicole Maehrer

“Um, yes— The blood’s not great…but I was referring to the fact that you look like you were carved out of marble, and I just think that as a rule of thumb, inherently evil people should be grotesque-looking.”

The fury winked out as if never there in the first place, his only response to blink. “You just can’t kill people and be pretty. It’s confusing.” Evie began unwrapping the wool scarf her little sister, Lyssa, had given her on her last birthday, stepping closer to The Villain and holding it up like a signal of peace. “For the blood, Your Evilness.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Oddly enough, Evie had the feeling he would’ve preferred to have been called grotesque for the way his face twisted with distaste.

Shaking his head, a small dose of wonder in his eyes, he said, “You are chaos.”

Stop trying to get the boss to laugh, Evie. Don’t touch the boss’s hair, Evie. Don’t find torture attractive, Evie. Don’t tell Edwin the cauldron brew is too strong, Evie.

He turned his head slightly, giving her his ear, and Evie smothered her surprise at him entertaining her antics. “Best to keep this between us, or it may enlist the other chairs in a revolt.” Then the boss did something that nearly made Evie’s mortal soul leave her body—he laughed. Or rather he coughed, a lot, into his hand.

“My first what, you little tornado?” “Your first joke.” He grunted and opened his mouth to speak, looking quite outraged, if she were being honest. “Of all the—” He paused to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Sage, do you honestly think me incapable of humor?” “Of course I don’t think that,” she said earnestly. “You hired me.”

“I’ll remind you that, at your bequest, I haven’t actually killed an intern in several months.” Evie shook her head hopelessly. “Sir, I hate to belittle your successes, but there are people who go their entire lives without killing anyone.” His face remained serious. “How dull.”

A sudden, small squeak came out of her, sounding suspiciously like a sneeze. She looked up at him sheepishly. He was a puddle on the floor, and every speck of dust in that room was his enemy.

“Of course,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. Sighing a ragged breath tinged in annoyance, she said to only herself: “Of course it’s a bomb.”

“It’s really…Trystan?” She frowned. “Do you dislike the name?” he asked dryly. “No…it’s just…not what I expected.” She leaned back on her heels, noticing dark clouds coming over the horizon. “I am going to regret this with an alarming intensity, but what were you expecting?” He had his head slightly leaned away, as if she was about to strike him. Smiling crookedly, taking a step toward him, she dealt her first blow. “Fluffy.” The response was beautiful. His mouth gaped open like a fish.

After a few moments of silence that for once Evie didn’t mind, he said, “Fluffy? You looked at me and thought to yourself, He looks like a Fluffy?” The name in the rough gravel of his voice, which seemed to be getting higher pitched in his outrage, sent her tittering. “Fluffy is a beautiful name. I had a dog named Fluffy once.” She nodded succinctly and then deadpanned, “He used to growl at lint.”

Malcolm gestured a hand in front of him for Sage to pass through the kitchen doors. As he watched her dark head of curls disappear beyond the door, he moved to follow, but Malcolm brought a hand up to his chest, looking entirely too sympathetic. “You laughed.” “I know,” Trystan said, shaking his head, hoping to knock the building ache out of it. “You’re fucked.”