Chapter 23 Amryn #2
“No. Just the one.” Ivan looked over his shoulder, and Amryn peered around him as best she could. People were still panicking and cowering, but more were beginning to look around them, realizing the danger seemed to be past.
Jayveh’s guards rose, pressed so closely around the princess that Amryn only caught a glimpse of her friend’s skirt as they herded her away.
Ivan’s eyes tracked over the tiled red roofing that surrounded the inner courtyard before he grunted. He must have assessed the threat to be gone as well, because he said, “Let’s get you to a physician.”
She instantly shook her head. “No. Just take me to my suite.” Being in a physician’s ward, surrounded by the injured and sick, was not easy for her; partly from the pain and despair they felt, and partly because she knew she could heal at least some of them, but not without risking the discovery of her forbidden magic.
The guilt from that was always terrible.
“Very well,” Ivan agreed. “But I will send for a physician to tend you in your suite.” He scooped her up, ignoring her protests that she could walk. “Keep pressure on your arm,” was all he said.
She tried her best, but—graze or not—the wound stung fiercely. Blood trickled between her clenched fingers, the cut throbbing beneath her hand.
“Amryn! You’re hurt!” Sadia darted over, Samuel close on her heels. The princess of Cael hesitated at Amryn’s side, her good hand fluttering uselessly. “What can I do?”
“Nothing, I’ll be fine,” Amryn said quickly, trying to reassure her.
“I’m taking her to her apartment,” Ivan said. “You should return to yours until we know the danger is fully past.”
Surprising her, Samuel shook his head. “We can find Carver. He’ll want to know what happened.”
“He’s in the prison,” Amryn told him. Her heart pinched. “Tell him the wound isn’t bad.” She didn’t want him to worry.
Samuel nodded once, then he and Sadia were gone.
Ivan carried Amryn easily, as if she weighed nothing.
One strong arm supported her back while the other rested beneath her bent knees.
Once they were in a less populated, narrower corridor, she began to breathe a little easier.
Without feeling all the emotions of those in the courtyard, her own shock finally started filtering away. “I really can walk,” she said.
Ivan said nothing, just kept walking.
She sighed. Saints save her from stubborn men.
Ivan ordered a passing servant to fetch a physician. The young man jerked out a nod and darted away.
“You scared him,” Amryn admonished.
Ivan grunted. “That is his issue, not mine.”
She rolled her eyes, but didn’t attempt to argue with him.
When they reached the corridor that housed the Vincetti suites, Amryn saw Bram still standing guard. The moment he spotted her, he paled. “What happened?” he burst out, rushing forward.
Ivan tightened his hold on Amryn. “She was wounded in an attack.”
Bram’s frantic eyes met hers. In that moment, she knew Bram had had no knowledge of the assassination attempt. Which either meant the Rising hadn’t told him, or it hadn’t been the rebels at all—which matched with what he’d told her earlier.
“Has a physician been sent for?” Bram demanded.
“Yenn.” Ivan brushed past Bram, who then scrambled to open the apartment door. Ivan settled Amryn on the bed. He left her side, but only so he could hunt down a towel in the washroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the wadded cloth against her bleeding arm.
She sucked in a breath.
Bram’s hands fisted at his sides. “I can do that—”
“Neeyev,” Ivan said curtly. “You may go.”
Amryn met Bram’s eyes, silently telling him that she was all right. Her uncle’s bodyguard was clearly torn, but he eventually inclined his head and returned to his position in the corridor. She could feel him out there, his fear for her a weight pressing against his chest.
“How is the pain?” Ivan asked.
“Not too bad,” she lied.
He nodded once, not looking up from where the towel was slowly staining red. “When did Ford arrive in Zagrev?”
She suspected he was trying to distract her, but there was a thread of true curiosity in him. “This morning,” she said.
“Did he locate Argent or Tam?”
“No.”
“But he brought King Jamir.”
Something in his tone—and his emotions—made Amryn ask, “You don’t think he should have been arrested?”
Ivan eyed her. “I did not say that. But I wonder if the consequences of arresting a king will be greater than the emperor anticipates.”
“You think the Rising will retaliate?”
Ivan snorted. “Loyalty doesn’t seem to be a strength of the Rising,” he said, his contempt for the rebels obvious. “But Jamir may have men loyal to him in Xerra. Other kings may also take notice and grow uneasy. Politics make for a dangerous battlefield. In an instant, allies can become enemies.”
She knew he was right. She hadn’t been an integral part of Torin’s court, but she had grown up around politics. She knew they could be treacherous.
Ivan shifted his hold on her arm, increasing the pressure.
Pain sparked, and she sucked in a breath, her good hand clutching the blanket beside her.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
She shook her head, her voice a little thinner than before. “It’s fine.” She cracked a smile. “I suppose your debt has been fulfilled, then. You saved my life.”
“Neeyev. My warning may have saved Jayveh’s life, but you were injured.”
She frowned. “But—”
“Jayveh was the target,” Ivan interrupted. “Not you. Someone wants her dead.”
A shiver tracked down her spine. “Carver will figure out who’s targeting her.”
Ivan’s stare met hers. “I thought you and Carver were leaving.”
“We can’t leave until after the emperor’s ball.” She shifted under his scrutiny. “What?”
“I was coming to find you,” Ivan said. “Before the attacker struck.”
She remembered the intensity in his eyes as he’d crossed that courtyard, headed straight for her. Her tongue darted over dry lips. “Why?”
He watched her closely as he asked, “How was your interview with a knight, il mishka?”
Her heart thudded in her chest. Forcing her face to remain smooth, she said, “Fine. How was yours?”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Uncomfortable.”
The answer surprised her. Not just because it was an unexpected admission from a warrior like Ivan, but because it was a truth spoken without apprehension.
He was able to admit such a thing because he had nothing to fear from the knights.
And the way he was looking at her made it clear he thought she had something to fear.
Her pulse kicked up. “What does il mishka mean?”
Ivan stared at her for a long moment, the air growing taut. Then, his voice a low rumble, he said, “It means little miracle.” He paused. “Not little in a belittling way, but as a sort of endearment.”
Little miracle. That’s what he’d been calling her all this time.
Her heart thundered.
He knew. He had to.
His stare was intense, as it always was, but he didn’t say anything more. Didn’t ask her any questions or try to force any confessions.
She returned his stare, just as silent. To ask him outright if he knew what she was would only betray her secret, though she was certain now that he’d guessed the truth. Ivan knew she was an empath. She could feel it in her bones.
Heat climbed her cheeks. She had to say something. Her lips parted. “Oh.”
His stare sharpened, and she mentally cursed herself. She needed to say something more than that.
She cleared her throat. “That’s a strange thing to call me.”
His head tilted to the side. “Why?”
“Because I’m not a worker of miracles.”
“That seems to be a matter of opinion, il mishka.” His voice was a gentle murmur. And from him, all she felt was an overwhelming sense of protection. A need to defend her.
She didn’t understand it, but she knew her secret was safe with him.
She wasn’t ready to confirm her empathy aloud—it was too ingrained in her to keep the secret—but her eyes burned with sudden tears, and emotion pinched her throat.
It took a long moment before she knew she could speak without betraying her emotions.
“I appreciate you wanting to check on me.”
Ivan tightened his hold on the towel, which was still pressed against her wounded arm. His voice was as formal as usual, even though the very air had shifted around them. “I am always at your service, Amryn. Whatever you need.”
She knew his offer had nothing to do with the debt he believed he owed her. “Why?” she asked.
“You remind me of a friend I had. One who . . . helped me as you did, when I was gravely injured.” His forehead creased. “We were only children, so, when he needed my protection, I was not able to save him.”
Her stomach pitched. “He was . . .?”
Old grief swelled as he confirmed, “He was killed by a knight. Executed.”
She closed her eyes tightly. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. To Ivan, and also to a young boy who had been unjustly killed.
“As am I.” There was a short pause before Ivan asked, “Are you safe from the knights?”
“Yes.” It was the most she dared tell him, since talking about the bloodstone didn’t seem wise.
Ivan’s curiosity was as strong as his confusion, but he didn’t demand to know how she’d evaded the detection of a knight. He merely nodded. “Good.”
Footsteps pounded in the corridor before the door burst open. Carver rushed in, his eyes wide and his breaths coming hard and fast. His eyes locked on her, and his relief, panic, and low-burning anger slammed into her.
“Amryn.” His voice was a hoarse rasp.
“She will be fine,” Ivan said, keeping pressure on her wound even as he moved to stand beside the bed.
Carver darted forward and took Ivan’s place on the bed, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch Amryn’s cheek. It was the one that throbbed from striking the stone floor when Ford had tackled her.
Her throat was tight, especially feeling the crushing weight of Carver’s roaring emotions. Heat gathered at the back of her eyes, but she managed to say, “I’m all right. It was just a graze.”
“A physician is coming,” Ivan added.
Carver glanced over at him, before finally focusing on the bloody cloth being pressed against her upper arm. “I can do that,” he said, his voice rough.
The Sibeten prince relinquished his hold at once.
Carver held the towel to her wound just as firmly as Ivan had. But where Ivan was mostly calm, Carver was a violent storm barely banked.
Amryn used her good hand to touch his bent knee. “I’m fine,” she whispered, hoping to soothe the silent scream of his fear.
His terror remained painfully strong.
“I will locate the physician,” Ivan said. He took a step back, his eyes sliding between them before he left the room.
Carver didn’t watch him go. His focus was wholly on Amryn as he peeled back the edge of the towel to view the wound.
She grimaced at the flash of pain.
Carver’s jaw was tight as he replaced the bloodied towel. “I should have escorted you back to the room.”
Her eyes widened. “You didn’t know this would happen.”
“You could have been killed. I . . .” He shook his head, unable to form more words. She could feel his agitation and lingering fear. It was choking him.
Her heart squeezed. “Carver . . .”
His jaw tensed. Then his emotions were abruptly locked down, shutting her out.
The sudden absence of him left a void in her chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, but in this moment, it made her feel horribly alone. After the terror she’d just experienced, that was the last thing she wanted. “How do you do that?” she asked in a whisper.
He peered up at her, defensiveness in his now guarded gaze. “Do what?”
“Shield your emotions. You do it so well, I can’t feel anything from you.”
A slight crack in his iron hold revealed only relief. “It works?”
Her stomach cramped. “Yes.”
“Thank the Saints,” he muttered, looking again at her wound.
It was suddenly hard to breathe. He wanted to shut her out. Wanted a shield against her abilities. As raw and vulnerable as she felt right now, the realization stung more than the wound on her arm.