The man didn’t get a chance to draw his sword before Carver had buried his blade in his heart. It was the quickest death he could give, for Amryn’s sake.
Behind him, he heard her retch.
Another shadow filled the doorway.The other guard.
Carver snarled in wordless fury, his grip on his blood-streaked knife clenching as he braced to kill again.
The shadow reared back. “Easy!” Berron lifted both arms, though only one hand caught the moonlight. “It’s me. I heard . . .” His attention landed on Amryn, who was still vomiting. Berron tensed. “Is she hurt?”
“Get Father,” Carver growled, his voice still roughened by sleep. Saints, one of the rare times he actually fell asleep, and this happened.
He was never going to sleep again.
Berron ignored him. He rushed into the room to kneel at Amryn’s side. She’d fallen to her knees at some point. Probably when he’d killed the guard.
Berron’s good hand clamped down on her shoulder, his other arm hanging uselessly. “Where are you hurt?” he demanded.
Amryn only retched again, her entire body shaking.
Panic clutched Carver. Her pain wasn’t diminishing—
A hiss of agony drew Carver’s gaze to the assassin he’d gutted. The man was still alive. Carver cursed himself. Ofcoursehe was still alive. A wound like that wasn’t quick.
The assassin was curled in on himself, his hands clamped over his weeping gut. He was shaking with the pain.
Pain Amryn was feeling, too.
Carver stalked forward.
The assassin gaped up at him, tears streaking his drawn face as he blubbered and tried to scoot back. “No! Please don’t kill me. I’ll tell you everything, I swear. Just help me and I’ll tell you everything I know.Please.”
Carver clamped a steadying hand on his shoulder, then shoved his blade cleanly through his heart.
“Blazing Saints!” Berron swore, tightening his hold on Amryn when she shuddered and vomited again. “What on the Scorched Plains is wrong with you?” his brother snarled at him. “Can’t you stop your butchering long enough to see you’re sickening her?”
Carver’s entire body shook with excess adrenaline as he met his brother’s glare. For the first time, he noticed Berron’s eyepatch wasn’t in place. The gaping hole where his eye had once been was a disconcerting sight. Carver hadn’t seen it since the days immediately following the eye’s removal. It had looked angrier then. Now, only scar tissue remained.
Carver forced himself to focus on Berron’s good eye. “I told you to get Father.”
“Burn on the Scorched Plains,” Berron sneered. “Did you even think of sparing his life so you could learn from him? No, you just killed him in cold blood because that’s what you are. A cold-blooded killer!”
“Stop it,” Amryn rasped, cradling her stomach with her arms. She was no longer heaving, but she looked like she might again at any moment. Berron’s hand on her shoulder seemed to be the only thing keeping her upright. She was unspeakably pale in the shadowed room. “Please . . . don’t fight.”
Carver’s fingers curled more tightly around his blade. He could feel the wetness there. He didn’t have to look down to know what sight would greet him.
His hands had been slicked with blood before.
He kept his gaze on Berron, knowing if he looked at Amryn, he wouldn’t be able to remain focused. “Do you have a knife?”
“Of course I have a knife,” Berron snapped.
Carver wasn’t surprised. His brother was a Vincetti, after all.
An internal war raged inside him as his gaze was pulled to Amryn. He needed to make sure the threat was truly over, but he also needed to go to her. Hold her.
The wetness on his hands kept him focused.
“Don’t move from her side,” he ordered Berron.
