Chapter 4 #3
A groan filled the tent, but it turned into a sharp cry as the pulley across from him was cranked, chains rattling in response.
Carver’s eyes remained closed.
Movement beside him. The cool tip of a blade pressed against his cheek. A whisper in his ear. “Open your eyes, General, or I’ll take out his.” A soft chuckle. “Which would be a shame, as he only has one left.”
Carver’s breath caught.
Berron.
No. It wasn’t possible. His brother wasn’t in Harvari. He wasn’t even a soldier anymore. He’d been dishonorably dismissed from the military when the truth of his addiction had been discovered. Berron couldn’t be here.
But what if he was?
Panic made Carver’s eyes flash open. His vision was blurry for a horrible moment, making it difficult to take in the man chained across from him.
Like Carver, he had no shirt. His ribs stuck out prominently, and every inch of him was covered in cuts, burns, and bruises.
His head was bowed forward, his dark hair hanging limply around his face.
Carver’s heart tripped. Look up. Please, look up . . .
As if the man could hear his thoughts, his head slowly lifted.
Carver jerked in his chains. “No,” he rasped. “No.”
It wasn’t Berron, staring back at him with only one eye.
It was Argent.
His best friend looked right at him, his single eye burning. His cracked lips parted, his voice surprisingly strong as he said, “This is your fault. They’re hurting me because of you. I lost Jayveh because of you. I lost everything. Because you failed me.”
Carver’s entire body shook. “Argent . . .”
A muscle ticked in Argent’s jaw. “I blame you. I hate you.”
They were the same words Berron had once thrown at him. His heart cracked. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Please . . . Argent . . .”
Raza stepped up to the imperial prince, brandishing his knife. Carver’s stomach plunged. Argent was about to be tortured in front of him. And just like all the other prisoners he’d had to look in the eye in this tent, there was nothing he could do to save him.
“No!” Carver struggled in his chains. “Don’t!”
Raza’s blade slammed into Argent’s shoulder.
Argent threw back his head and screamed.
Carver roared.
“Carver, you’re—”
He wrenched back, somehow tearing free of the manacles clamped around his wrists.
A gasp rang in his ears, and a shadow fell back.
Carver’s breaths were ragged, hissed out between gritted teeth, his eyes blinking furiously as he tried to make sense of his surroundings, adrenaline burning in his veins.
He was in a shadowed tent. The low tint of distant firelight wavered against the canvas, bringing filtered light into the small space.
Sweat drenched him, and his heart hammered against his ribs.
He could still feel the cut of the chains around his wrists. Still hear Argent’s screams.
But he wasn’t bound. He wasn’t a prisoner. And even though the earthy scents of the jungle surrounded him, he knew he wasn’t in Harvari. He wasn’t with Raza.
It was a name he tried not to even think, because it made the man too real. But his torturer was dead. Killed by Carver’s own hand. He’d watched the light drain from Raza’s eyes. He’d kept stabbing until Ford had dragged his emaciated, bloody body off the Harvarian torturer.
Argent was also dead.
“This is your fault . . . I lost Jayveh because of you. I lost everything. Because you failed me.”
Guilt roared through him, intensifying the shudders wracking his body. His lungs were too tight. He pinched his eyes closed, fighting to control his panic. Fighting just to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” a soft voice whispered.
He stiffened. A curse burned his throat, but he didn’t have any air to give it life.
Amryn. She was here. She was the shadow crouched before him. She’d found him locked in a nightmare, and she’d grabbed his wrists.
He’d torn away from her. Saints, it was a bloody miracle he’d recoiled, rather than lashed out.
When caught in the throes of a nightmare, he was unpredictable.
He’d attacked Ford several times after his rescue, thinking him an enemy.
His father, too. Every time consciousness had filtered back in, he’d been left shaking and sickened, overwhelmed with regret and pierced with painful vulnerability.
And they’d been left staring at him with a mixture of grief and pity. As if he were broken.
He was broken. He just didn’t want anyone else to know that.
And yet, Amryn had just seen him shatter. No—it was worse than that. She’d felt it. Every pain and weakness the nightmare flayed open. His guilt and terror.
His hands shook and his gut churned. Especially when he realized this wasn’t the first time.
Amryn had woken him from a nightmare before, on Zawri, when they’d slept near each other on that mountain.
Trapped in the clinging haze of the nightmare, he’d tackled her to the ground with a knife at her throat when she’d tried to wake him.
Because she’d known he was in agony. Because she’d felt it.
And in return for trying to comfort him, he’d attacked her.
Even if he hadn’t truly hurt her physically, his emotions would have caused her pain. They were as stark and jagged as forked lightning streaking across a night sky. Erratic and sharp; rapid, yet glaring.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Amryn said, her soft voice tentative.
“It’s fine.” Nothing about this was fine, but he didn’t want her pity—and he certainly didn’t want her to feel any guilt. He was the one who needed to apologize. He unlocked his clenched jaw with concerted effort. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” she said at once. “Not at all.”
But he’d frightened her. That was excruciatingly obvious.
Tremors still rocked through him, remnants of the nightmare that had taken him back to hell. He scrubbed both hands over his face, determined to ignore the way they shook. “You can’t touch me when I’m like that.”
“You were in pain.” There was a fissure of answering pain in her voice, and it cracked something inside him. “I couldn’t just leave you trapped like that. You were so afraid . . .”
Shame bled through him. He hated that she could read him so perfectly. That she’d felt his fear, or even a fraction of his torment. She was depending on him to keep her safe. How could she trust him to do that if she knew what a wreck he was?
His fingers interlocked at the nape of his neck.
The pressure grounded him. Helped slow the relentless churn of his frantic thoughts.
“If it happens again—if you need to wake me—just call my name. Don’t ever touch me.
” He would never forgive himself if he hurt her, even unknowingly.
He swallowed roughly, meeting the faint glint of her eyes in the darkness. “Promise me, Amryn.”
“I promise.” Her voice was soft. Just like her scent, her skin, her touch. Amryn was softness, while he was all rough edges and fractured pieces.
Silence permeated the tent, each of them simply breathing. His breaths were noticeably more uneven than hers.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.
The muscles in his back locked, straining his scars.
Amryn chewed her lower lip. “Maybe if you talked about your nightmares, they wouldn’t haunt you so.”
He would rather wander the Scorched Plains for all eternity than talk about what he’d endured at Raza’s hands. And to Amryn, of all people? The woman who had his heart—the woman he would bleed and die for—and the one person who would not only hear his words if he spoke them, but feel them?
“No,” he told her. Never.
Amryn’s breathing thinned.
Carver tensed, thinking she would question him or press for more.
Her expression wasn’t discernable in the dim lighting, but her voice was incredibly soft as she said, “If you ever change your mind . . . You can tell me anything, Carver.”
His throat worked as he swallowed hard. Her gentleness was almost painful in the aftermath of his nightmare, but he was grateful for her understanding. He murmured his thanks, and Amryn nodded once before moving to tuck herself into the bedroll beside his.
Carver slid into his own bedroll. His voice was surprisingly even as he asked, “How is Jayveh?”
“She finally fell asleep.” There was a pause, and Carver studied Amryn’s profile as she lay on her back, gazing up at the canvas stretched above them, that glow from the fire beyond highlighting the beautiful curves of her face. “My heart is breaking for her,” she whispered at last.
Carver’s gut suddenly hurt for another reason. “Is there any way Argent could still be alive? Maybe you just didn’t sense him because he was unconscious?”
Sorrow filled her eyes as she shook her head.
“Even if he’d been unconscious, I would have sensed something from him.
Especially with the increased power of the bloodstone.
” She hesitated. “Carver, I felt Tam. Argent wasn’t with her.
Even if he’d gotten away, he would have been somewhere. But I couldn’t feel him. I’m sorry.”
He glanced away, his lungs too tight. It made his whisper sound hoarse. “I know you’re right, I just . . . It hasn’t felt real yet.” It probably wouldn’t until he was in Zagrev, walking the palace halls Argent had always walked with him. Seeing the throne that should have been his.
Guilt rose inside him, along with a flare of anger. Tam had stolen that future from Argent. She’d taken it from all of them when she’d killed him. And Carver hadn’t seen it coming. Hadn’t been able to prevent it.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Amryn whispered.
“It was my plan,” he said, his voice low and horribly even.
“We all agreed to it.”
“But I was the fool who thought it would work.”
“The plan was good,” she argued softly. “We just didn’t know about Tam.”
But he was a strategist. It was his job to predict every eventuality. He’d failed to do that, and his best friend had died.
Amryn’s lips pressed together. He could see the debate in her eyes, but in the end, she changed the subject. “Do you have any insect bites?”
It was the last thing he’d expected her to say. He huffed out a breath. “A few.”
Sympathy softened her features. In the dim glow of the firelight, she found her bag and pulled out a stoppered vial. “Ahmi gave this to me earlier today. It helps soothe the sting a bit.” She met his gaze. “I could apply it, if you’d like.”
His heart skipped a beat. Despite the rawness of his emotions, the thought of being touched by his wife made his skin tighten in anticipation. “If you’d like,” he returned softly.
Amryn shifted to kneel before him.
Carver drew his arm forward, angling it so she could see the reddened bites that riddled his forearm.
She winced. “Carver, they’re everywhere.” She hesitated, then spoke in a voice so low the words were nearly inaudible. “I could heal them.”
“No.” His answer was immediate. He knew how her healing worked. She would take on any of his discomfort, and nothing was worth that. Besides, if anyone noticed he was suddenly free of bites, they might grow suspicious.
Amryn bit her lip but didn’t argue. She uncorked the small bottle, then dipped one fingertip inside.
She leaned in, and Carver’s breath caught as the pad of her finger brushed gently over the first irritated bump, spreading cool ointment over the bite.
Her touch was featherlight. Barely there.
And yet he felt it so deeply, it could have been a brand.
He swallowed as she traced each bite on his arm. He barely registered the fact that the ointment seemed to be working. He was only aware of the places she touched him, and the searing warmth each brush of her skin left behind.
When she’d found all the bites on his arms, her eyes ran over his chest. He wondered what she thought of all the scars that marked him. But it was an errant thought, driven away the moment she located another bite. This one was high on his left shoulder.
He watched with fascination—and more than a little satisfaction—as a light blush spread over her cheeks. He swore neither of them were breathing as she moved to tend a bite on the side of his neck. His pulse fluttered under her fingertips.
Her eyes darted to his. “I’m sorry they attacked you.”
He wasn’t. Not if it meant she’d keep touching him like this.
They’d been married for nearly three months, and they’d shared intimate moments.
He knew the thrill of holding her. Kissing her.
His fingers knew the softness of her curls and the warmth of her skin.
But the only time he’d shared his wife’s bed was when she’d been injured or sick.
Their marriage had been far from conventional, but there was no denying what he felt for her.
It had been growing every day since the first moment he saw her in that chapel, walking toward him.
He knew the dubious privacy of a tent wasn’t where he wanted to seduce his wife for the first time. He wasn’t even sure Amryn was ready for that. But when she tended his last insect bite, he swore his disappointment was mirrored in her eyes.
She drew back and sealed the vial. “I hope that helps.”
Her touch had driven him mad. But he gave her a half smile. “They already feel better. Thank you.”
She nodded, fiddling with the narrow bottle in her hands. “I just wish there was some sort of balm to help Jayveh.”
“You are helping her,” he said. “Just by being there for her.”
Amryn’s eyes found his. “I’m here for you, too.”
His throat constricted. “I know,” he murmured, his voice rougher than it should have been. Because he knew what she wanted, but he couldn’t give it to her. He refused to burden her with his sins or make her feel his pain. She didn’t deserve to face his demons.
There was an expectant pause, like Amryn assumed he’d say more. Or hoped he would. When he didn’t, she quietly shifted away. She returned the vial of ointment to her bag and lay down on her bedroll.
He got settled as well, his chest feeling too tight as he watched her pull her blanket into place.
“Goodnight, Carver,” she whispered.
He knew she was going to roll away from him. Before she could, he reached out and took her hand.
She froze.
His thumb grazed over the delicate skin of her inner wrist, and then he gently squeezed her hand. “Goodnight, Amryn,” he whispered.
Silence, but for the soft sounds of their breathing in the darkened tent. Then her fingers moved around his, and something in his chest loosened as she squeezed back.