Chapter 42 #2
“Thank you.” Carver was aware of Amryn staring at him, and he had no idea what she was thinking. If she saw only camaraderie in their easy exchange, or if she realized he was trying to get the knight away from her. Regardless, she seemed to breathe a little easier when Rhone strode away.
Carver didn’t. Because even though Rhone hadn’t caught her this time, she’d risked far too much today.
It took a few hours before the carriage could reach them.
The chaos in and around Market Square was ongoing even though the attack was long over.
They’d treated Ford’s wound the best they could in Piera Denvoux’s shop, and Carver had cleaned the slice on Amryn’s neck and wrapped a rudimentary bandage around her throat.
By the time they returned to the palace, it was late afternoon. Tension bunched every muscle in his body. All he wanted was a moment alone. A moment to think. A moment to hold his wife and assure himself she was truly all right. Then perhaps shake her.
Carver’s father was waiting for them in the courtyard, clearly harried. While palace guards rushed in to carry Ford to the nearest physician, Cregon embraced Elowen, then Amryn—though more carefully, due to her visible injuries.
“Thank all the Saints you’re all right,” he said to both of them, tears choking him.
If Amryn was surprised by his father’s embrace, she didn’t show it. In fact, her face was entirely too blank. Shock, perhaps.
He knew his father had questions for them, but Carver only lingered long enough to confirm with his father that the emperor wanted to discuss the attack in an hour, when Morelli and Keats returned from their initial investigation at the square.
Then Carver left Elowen and Ivan standing with his father, his hand wrapped around Amryn’s as he tugged her into the palace.
He moderated the length of his steps, aware that she was in pain.
She had tried to brush it off in Piera’s shop, but he’d persisted until she admitted that, in addition to the cut on the side of her neck and the swollen bruising on her cheek that seemed to get worse with every passing moment, she was bruised from falling, and she’d been punched in the gut.
If Carver hadn’t already killed her attacker, he would gladly kill him again.
The walk to their room was silent. Carver tried to avoid the busier corridors, but they still garnered some wide-eyed looks.
Carver hardly noticed. He kept reliving those moments in the square.
The sense of helplessness as he’d searched for Amryn.
How it had felt to find her on the ground, with that rebel straddling her.
About to kill her. Spotting the blood on her throat and thinking she was already dead. That he’d been too late to save her.
That moment would haunt him forever.
He knew he was spiraling toward a breaking point. His breathing was too brittle, his lungs too tight. His fingers twitched with excess energy, adrenaline that was slow to burn away. But he held himself together with rigid control, just as he’d been doing all afternoon.
He could not afford to break.
The last thing Carver expected to see was Berron pacing in the hall outside their door. His single eye scanned them, his shoulders tensing as he took in Carver’s bloodstained clothes and Amryn’s bruised and bloodied state. “Blazing Saints,” he cursed.
“We’re all right,” Amryn said, with far more patience than Carver felt capable of right now.
Berron’s throat flexed as he swallowed. “Father told me about the attack. We didn’t know .
. .” His single hand clenched at his side as he took in Amryn’s appearance.
The thin trickles of dried blood that had escaped her bandage.
The swelling around her left cheekbone, which was already showing signs of bruising.
Carver couldn’t read his brother’s expression. Frankly, he didn’t care to at the moment. Without a word, he pulled Amryn to their door, grateful when one of the guards unlocked it.
“Do you need anything?” Berron asked.
“No.” Carver’s voice was rougher than it probably needed to be, but his control was beginning to fracture.
“Thank you, Berron,” Amryn murmured as Carver pulled her into the privacy of their room.
The last thing he saw before closing the door was his brother’s jaw harden.
“My lady!” Ahmi—who had been waiting for them in the room—rushed forward.
Carver had no idea who had summoned her, but he was glad his wife’s maid was here.
She immediately began fussing over Amryn, drawing her into the small bathing chamber.
The woman had also called for a physician, so there was nothing for Carver to do.
No. He needed to get rid of his shirt. Even if Rhone was convinced Tam was the empath he’d sensed in the square today, Carver would do everything in his power to keep Amryn above suspicion.
He grasped the back collar and yanked the ruined garment off, tossing it into the back corner of his wardrobe. He’d burn it later, when no one else was around.
When he glanced down, he faltered. His hand slowly smoothed over stained but unbroken skin. Other than faded bloodstains, there were no marks on his ridged abdomen. No hint of a scar. No sign of the agony he’d endured. But he remembered it. Knew exactly where he’d been stabbed. It was . . .
“Unnatural.”
Carver cringed at Rhone’s voice in his head.
Ignoring the dried blood on his body, he crossed to the wardrobe and found a clean shirt to shrug on. He’d wash later, after Amryn was done. For now, he just wanted to cover his itching skin.
If only he could hide his fear and frustration so easily.
They’d only seemed to build over the last few hours, twisting into something sharp and jagged in his chest. He kept waiting for the tension of the battle to release him, but it hadn’t.
Maybe because it felt like he was still braced for a fight.
He kept feeling the knife stab into his gut.
Another shoving into his back. His hands shook.
The pain and the panic were still there.
Knowing the only way to protect Amryn was to cover her body with his own, even though it was going to kill him.
He’d thought he was going to die. He would have, if not for Amryn’s magic.
Soft murmuring voices floated through the closed door of the bathing chamber.
He had no idea how long he stood there listening to those low voices, but the knock on the outer door made him jerk.
He nearly reached for his knife, but one of the guards outside announced the physician.
It was the same man who’d attended Amryn after she’d been grazed by the crossbow bolt meant for Jayveh.
Saints, Carver was doing a horrible job keeping his wife safe. She’d nearly died today. He’d nearly been too late to save her. The helplessness that burned through him only served to fuel the furious tangle of emotions building inside him.
Ahmi and Amryn emerged from the bathing chamber.
Amryn looked too pale. She still had the bloodstained bandage wrapped low around her neck, but she was in a clean dress and her braid had been undone, leaving her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders.
The bruising on her cheek had worsened even in the short time they’d been apart.
The physician directed her to one of the overstuffed chairs and he tutted as he unwrapped the bandage. He cared for her gently, and when he was done and gone, Ahmi settled Amryn in the large bed and promised to return with food.
When the door clicked shut behind the maid, they were finally alone.
Amryn eyed Carver, her smooth expression impossible to decipher. It was a mask. That she was wearing it here, when it was just the two of them, was horribly irritating.
The strain that had existed between them since she’d healed him was suddenly unbearable. His voice was low. A little too hard, because he’d feared it would come out thin. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
Her expression didn’t alter. “You were dying.”
Yes, and she’d saved him. Risking herself in the process and enduring a pain he’d never wanted her to feel.
He still couldn’t believe the risks she’d taken.
And she didn’t seem concerned about what she’d done.
It was maddening. Infuriating, even, because it meant she might do something reckless again.
Her eyes narrowed, fracturing her reserved mask.
“You’re angry.” It wasn’t a question, because she knew he was angry.
She could feel it. He was the one in the dark here.
Except, her tone had just enough of a bladed edge to make it sound like he had no right to be angry.
That she was the only one with that right.
His own eyes narrowed. “What by all the Saints were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I’d save your life.”
Irrational fury roared through him. “You could have gotten yourself killed. Rhone was there. Saints, a thousand people were there, but you still healed me. That was stupid, Amryn.”
Her green eyes flashed.
But he wasn’t done. “You used the bloodstone, even though you know it’s dangerous. When you promised me you’d never use it like that again. But you didn’t even hesitate. You have no idea what that thing is capable of, or what it might take from you. And you used it anyway.”
Her nostrils flared, color rising on her cheeks as her jaw tensed. She threw off her covers, failing to hide a wince as she shoved off the bed. She snatched up her pillow and strode past him, her back ramrod straight as she marched for the door.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“I’m not staying here with you,” she snapped, not even looking back at him.
Something in his chest cracked. He tried to ignore it as he ground his teeth together. “Does your life really mean so little to you? That you’d risk yourself so blatantly?”
She spun on him, throwing the pillow at his head.
The attack caught him off guard, but he instinctively ducked. The pillow sailed over his head, barely missing him.