Chapter 33 Amryn
Amryn
Elowen drew the blanket tighter around Amryn’s shoulders, even though the air on the balcony wasn’t cold.
There was an undeniable chill in Amryn’s blood, though.
“Are you sure you’re feeling better?” Carver’s sister asked, clearly fretting. “I can send for the physician. He might have something to help settle your stomach.”
“No, I’m fine.” Truthfully, Amryn was still trembling.
The attack had been terrifying. She didn’t even know what had woken her, though she suspected it had been the bloodstone.
She’d hidden it in her bedside table for the night, but she could have sworn she’d felt a sudden swell of alarm, so strong it had alerted her to the threat entering their room.
Screaming had been instinct. The moment she’d felt the cold, killing calm creeping closer . . .
She shuddered at the memory.
She still didn’t fully understand how the bloodstone worked.
It was sentient, at least to some degree, since it could choose to warn her of danger even if she wasn’t holding it.
But to actually utilize its power, it seemed she needed to have contact with it.
Touching it directly was her instinct, but even just in her pocket it had helped shield her from the knights.
If she’d worn it to sleep, maybe she could have used it to mute the pain of those deaths.
Nausea swirled.
“Do you need some more water?” Elowen asked. She’d already fetched Amryn one glass, which she’d forced herself to drink.
“No, thank you.”
Berron sat in the wrought-iron chair beside her, watching her closely.
He’d said nothing since Elowen had joined them outside, but he hadn’t left, which surprised her.
She could feel his unease. He didn’t want to be under scrutiny.
She wondered if it had to do with the fact he didn’t have his eyepatch.
He’d allowed his long hair to fall into his face, but it clearly wasn’t enough of a mask to make him comfortable.
Amryn was so grateful he’d heard the fight. That even though things between him and Carver were strained, he’d come to help. She was especially grateful he’d stayed by her side in the aftermath. She didn’t like what he’d said to Carver, however. She’d felt how deeply those words had cut him.
She glanced up, looking into their suite. She was searching for Carver, but she saw Cregon first, speaking with one of the palace guards. The bodies were gone, and a couple of servants were still scrubbing blood from the floor. One rug was already rolled up, unsalvageable.
Amryn swallowed back another surge of bile.
Then she realized Carver wasn’t in the room.
Her heartbeat quickened. She tried to feel for him, but it was difficult with so many people around and her own emotions so frayed.
It might have been easier if she’d had the bloodstone, but it was still tucked away in the bedside table. Anxiety spiked. “Where’s Carver?”
She must have spoken loudly enough to garner Cregon’s attention. He moved to the open balcony doors. “He’s just washing up,” he said, clearly trying to soothe her. “He’ll be back soon.”
Amryn felt a blinding stab of guilt and shame, mingled with self-loathing. She immediately recognized it as coming from Carver. She pushed to her feet, letting the blanket that Elowen had wrapped around her fall. “I need to go to him.”
Cregon’s lips pressed into a line. “I think he needs a moment alone.”
“No. That’s the last thing he needs.” She stepped around Cregon, crossing the brightly lit room. She reached for the handle of the bathing chamber door but paused at the last second. She knocked instead. “Carver?”
There was a harsh silence. A sudden clamping down of his emotions. “I’ll be out in a moment. Stay with my father.”
His voice sounded wrong. Thin. And the emotions she’d sensed before he’d shut her out were sheer torment.
She eased into the small room. Carver hadn’t bothered to light a lamp, so the space was shadowed.
Ambient light from the night sky drifted through the latticed window that sat high on the wall, revealing Carver standing at the washstand, his hands in the basin of water.
His shoulders were hunched and his head bent.
When she closed the door behind her, Carver glanced over, his expression unreadable in the shadows. “Amryn . . .”
She used the starlight to guide her to his side. She glanced into the water, noting the pinkish hue. Her stomach squirmed, but compassion rose when she saw how tightly his hands were fisted.
She slipped around him and lifted a neatly folded cloth. Without a word, she began cleaning his clenched hands.
He tensed when she first touched him. She knew he was about to pull away or tell her she didn’t have to do this—but he didn’t.
He watched as she silently washed the bloodstains off his skin, his strained muscles gradually relaxing.
At her silent prompting, he extended his fingers, and she cleaned each one gently and methodically, including the silver ring on his forefinger.
When that was done, she brushed the wet cloth over his open palms.
Their breaths mingled in a silence that was only interrupted by the soft trickle of water and the quiet rasp of the cloth.
She didn’t thank him for saving her life.
She knew he didn’t want gratitude for what he’d done tonight.
What he needed right now was her care and understanding, and that’s what she tried to give him as she gently washed the callused hands that had saved her life yet again.
When his hands were clean—every groove, and under every fingernail—she set aside the sodden cloth and lifted a clean towel.
He offered no resistance as she guided him to face her, turning him away from the bloodied water.
Using the same gentle meticulousness she’d used to wash his hands, she now carefully dried them, keeping each motion soft and slow.
Only when she was finished, the towel set aside, did she look up at his face.
He was watching her intently, his emotions still tightly sealed behind that impenetrable wall he somehow managed to build.
With the tips of her fingers, she traced a reddened mark on his temple.
He winced, a flash of pain cutting briefly through his shield.
“Do you need a physician?” she asked, her voice low.
He shook his head, the skin around his eyes tightening. “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely.
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Without breaking eye contact, she took his clean hands in hers. “You saved my life, Carver.”
His fingers twitched in her hold. “I didn’t hear them. I—”
“It was the middle of the night,” she broke in gently. “You were asleep. We both were. And they were silent.”
“You heard them.”
“I think it was the bloodstone. I felt a flare of warning, and it woke me.”
A muscle in his cheek jumped. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to kill him. He was dying already, and I . . . You were in pain . . .”
“I know. I understand.”
“It hurt you.” Anguish filled his soft whisper. “I hurt you. I’m sorry . . .”
She let go of one hand so she could rest her palm against his stubbled cheek. He stilled under her touch, though his expression remained tortured. “I’m safe, Carver,” she reminded him. “Because of you. We’re both safe.”
“You’re all right?” he asked, and she realized those were the words he needed to hear.
“Yes. I’m all right.”
His eyes squeezed shut, his head ducking. The movement forced her hand to shift, and she resettled her palm against the side of his neck, feeling the rapid beat of his pulse. Her fingertips strayed into his dark hair, trying to soothe him with her touch.
Her heart broke for him. For the sorrow he felt in taking lives. She knew he didn’t regret defending her, but he hadn’t wanted to kill those men.
She leaned in, even as she applied pressure to the back of his neck, forcing his head down until their foreheads were pressed together.
Her eyes fell closed and she prayed he’d truly hear her as she said, “I’m not going to thank you, because I know you don’t want that right now.
But I’m grateful for you, Carver. So utterly grateful that you’re the one I married in Esperance.
I will always be grateful that you are mine. ”
His breath hitched. Suddenly, his arms banded around her, dragging her body against his. He squeezed her so tightly, breathing was a struggle.
But she held him just as fiercely, letting him bury his face against the curve of her neck and simply hold her.
Carver had been hovering since the assassin strike three days ago, even though there had been no further attacks.
Whenever he had to leave her, Ford or Ivan usually showed up.
She understood Carver’s protectiveness, and she was even grateful for it.
But when Elowen stopped by and asked if Amryn and Ivan—who had been trying to teach her an impossibly difficult Sibeten card game all morning—wanted to come horseback riding with her on the palace grounds, Amryn had immediately pressured the two of them to go together.
She’d felt the tug inside Ivan as he’d hesitated, torn between his desire to spend time with Elowen and his sense of duty in protecting Amryn. When she’d promised she had no intention of leaving the guarded room, and that she’d enjoy some time to herself, he had finally relented.
Amryn had tidied up the cards he’d left behind, and her eyes had strayed to the cello in the corner of the room.
But as much as she wanted to lose herself in music, she knew this was a rare moment of solitude, and she shouldn’t waste it.
She hadn’t had a chance to pull out Von’s journal since Bram had interrupted her, and that had been ten days ago now.
Even though Von’s words made little sense, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something vitally important in the journal.