Carver’s eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw flexing.
Before he could say anything—or break the Chancellor’s too-perfect nose—Amryn said, “Thank you for your offer, but I must decline.”
“Ah, what a shame,” Kulver said, not sounding discouraged at all. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Please know that it’s a standing offer.”
“One I will always decline, Chancellor.”
“I told you, Amryn, you may call me Ryun.”
A growl escaped Carver.
Kulver’s eyes gleamed with delight. “Come now, General, surely you’re not so possessive that you won’t allow your wife to have friends?”
Amryn wrapped a hand around Carver’s wrist. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to trap it before he could raise a fist against Kulver, or if the move was more of a claiming for the benefit of the insufferable man. Her tone was sharper than before as she said, “I have friends, Chancellor. And I can assure you, you will never be counted among them.”
He chuckled. “Your wit continues to dazzle, my lady.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I think it would be best if you refrained from seeking me out.” Without waiting for a response, she tugged on Carver’s wrist and pulled him around the chancellor, who watched them leave with an amused gaze.
“I’m going to break his nose,” Carver said, not bothering to keep the declaration quiet.
Behind them, Kulver chuckled.
Amryn’s hold on Carver’s wrist tightened. “It wouldn’t deter him,” she murmured. “The best strategy with Kulver will be avoidance and not rising to his bait.” She sighed. “I probably shouldn’t have responded as I did. He likes a challenge.”
Carver grunted. “He’s never been challenged by me. I promise he won’t like it.”
Amryn’s lips twitched.
Seeing her flash of amusement, however brief, made some of his own mood lighten.
Until he noticed Berron standing at his door, which was right next to theirs. His brother was watching them, his single eye narrowed. Carver couldn’t help but tense.
Amryn seemed unaffected as she said, “Good afternoon, Berron.”
Berron’s hard expression remained unchanged, but Carver swore he saw a flicker of surprise in his eye before he deliberately turned from them, lifting the key in his hand to the lock on the door.
He missed.
With a low growl, Berron stooped closer and tried to fit the key in once more.
Again, he missed. Saints, was he drunk?
Berron rested his stump against the door, as if that would help his aim.
Amryn swept forward, compassion in every movement as she reached Berron’s side. She reached for the key.
Berron flinched back, fisting the small piece of metal.
Amryn stilled, then slowly extended her hand, palm open in silent invitation.
Carver stiffened. If Berron said something cutting . . .
“I can do it,” he snapped, glaring at her.
“I’m sure you can,” Amryn said easily. “But so can I.” She lowered her voice, then added, “And I bet I can do it faster.”
Berron’s glare sharpened, and Carver prepared to step between them. But despite his scowl, Berron dropped the key into Amryn’s hand.
