Chapter 30
Trystan
For a very long time, Trystan Maverine had trusted no one. He would watch every move of those around him, waiting for someone to betray him. Anyone could be a threat. Anyone could do wrong. However, he did not extend these same principles to baked goods.
But by the look upon Sage’s face, he feared he might have to. “What is it?” he murmured quietly.
“We should leave.”
“Why?”
“Oh, say you won’t leave just yet,” their host interrupted hopefully. “I’m Greta. And I never have guests.” She placed a hand on Trystan’s shoulder, smiling.
“Perhaps because you have an angry giant as a greeter?” Sage guessed, uncharacteristically short. Taking Trystan’s arm with a sharp tug, she said, “I’m sorry, but we really can’t stay.” Sage got as far as touching the doorknob before she yelped in pain.
Trystan grabbed her hand, which was now branded with a red burn. “What is this?”
Greta folded her arms, scowling. “Why do you spurn my generosity?”
“Because it causes blisters,” Sage deadpanned. “Now open the door.”
“I’m afraid I cannot.” Greta flipped her blond hair over her shoulder, all pretense of hospitality now gone. “What will you do, Villain?” It was the first time Trystan had heard that word…and it wasn’t aimed at him.
She was asking Evangelina.
And Evangelina didn’t appear bothered by it in the slightest. In fact, she grinned, peering up at him with her other hand held to her chest. “No one’s ever said it to me.”
“You never forget the first time,” Trystan agreed sedately.
“You think you can traipse around the kingdom doing whatever you please with no consequences to anyone else?” Greta continued. “Dragging this poor man along, keeping him trapped in your clutches?”
“Have you and the voice in my head been having meetings?” Sage asked with genuine curiosity that made a laugh catch in his throat.
“I’m quite fond of her clutches,” Trystan interrupted, patience thin and as tumultuous as the vein throbbing in his neck. “We would appreciate you pulling the door open for us,” he started politely, pausing to lean toward the wall and sniff. “And your gingerbread recipe.”
“The frosting, too,” Sage whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“I will not allow you to leave until I’m confident you will be safe.”
The humor left Trystan swiftly. “I don’t know what crock news pamphlets you’ve been reading, but King Benedict is a master manipulator and a liar.
Don’t let him make a fool of you.” Trystan folded his arms, but he felt more assured by Sage, who seemed to be regaining her passion for being painted dangerous.
Thank gods.
“Or else we may need your head for home decor,” Sage offered pleasantly, and Trystan slapped his forehead.
Greta put her hands on her hips, dubious. “What about you? If she’s The Villain, what do you think that makes you?”
The corners of his lips pulled, pleased and menacing in his reply. “Her muscle.”
He could feel Sage’s eyes burning into the side of his head. “When I get to three, follow me down the hall,” she said through her teeth.
“When you get…”
But she didn’t actually count, just yelled, “Three!”
His life was sincerely…outrageous.
Sage broke for the open hallway, and he followed right behind her. Because of course he did.
She opened the last door, clearly hoping it would be a back-door exit, and he threw the metal latch closed behind them. Then stared at the closed door, in disbelief that hardly ten minutes ago, he was atop a horse.
Now he was locked in a house made of baked goods.
But, he supposed, if this was the way he’d go…at least he’d die surrounded by who and what he loved.
Sage…and sugar.
“Trystan…”
“Oh, what now?” he groaned. “No windows?”
When he scanned the rest of the room, there were indeed no windows, but that’s not what had snagged Sage’s frightened eyes.
It was the large pot in the middle of the room, sitting over a small fire.
Sage tapped her finger against her chin, drawing the same conclusion as he.
“I think I know one of the ingredients in the gingerbread recipe.”
Wonderful. Greta the gingerbread lady was going to cook them.