She lurched forward, arms swinging to keep herself from falling.
He snagged her wrist. Yanked her back.
That’s when she felt Carver. She was so attuned to him, she could feel him even now. He was close. He felt a flicker of pain, and terror clotted inside him. But his anger was stronger, and his determination was strongest of all.
Her breaths were thin and sharp. But feeling Carver’s determination only bolstered her own. As her attacker dragged her back once more, she didn’t hesitate. She whirled on him. He hadn’t expected her to face him. Surprise ghosted through him, though his grip on her wrist only clenched tighter.
She kicked him between his legs.
He staggered, doubling over before he fell to his knees.
She staggered as well, gasping at his pain. Her body shook, but he’d released her. She stumbled back. Breathless and aching, she still screamed, “Carver!”
She felt his rush of relief. The flood of frantic need as he yelled, “Amryn!”
She twisted, trying to pinpoint the direction of his call. But the pain and the swirling rush of the crowd disoriented her. She took one step before a hand grasped her ankle.
She screamed as she fell. Her already bruised knees hit hard, the scrapes on her palms deepening as she tried to catch herself against cracked cobblestones. The hand that had been trampled flashed with pain.
She threw a look over her shoulder. Her pulse thundered as she once again locked eyes with her masked attacker. This time, there was more than cold evil in his gaze. Now, there was rage.
Amryn kicked out at him, but he pinned her legs. With a powerful heave, he got her on her back. He dragged himself up her thrashing body, growling his frustration a second before his fist pounded into her stomach.
Pain exploded. She convulsed from the blow, her breath strangling in her throat. Nausea churned, and by the time her bleary eyes cleared, he was straddling her, both of her wrists pinned above her head, clasped together so tightly in one of his hands that the bones in her wrists grated. Panic engulfed her.
He lifted his knife, the tip aimed for her throat.
It came down.
Amryn jerked her head to the side.
The blade sliced through her skin, making her sob. But the tip of the knife hit the ground beside her throat. The edge of his blade had only grazed the side of her neck. A glancing cut, though blood slicked her skin, hot and sickening.
Her attacker snarled. With the dagger in his hand, he doubled his fist and punched her cheek.
Agony flared. Her hearing hazed out as he hit her again in the same place. Amryn choked, a sob trapped in her chest.
Through the tears burning her eyes, she saw his bloody knife lift once more.
It plunged toward her heart this time.
A body slammed into him, knocking him off her and sending both men rolling. A flash of familiar dark hair registered a second before Amryn felt the raging storm of his fury and fear.Carver.
The two men rolled until they hit the toppled cart. Carver wrestled furiously with the man until he managed to get on top. Amryn was too stunned to do more than curl onto her side, one hand cradling her abused face. Pain riddled her and shivers wracked her body. She watched through tear-filled eyes as Carver buried his knife in the masked man’s heart.
She jerked as she felt his death.
Carver shoved away from the body. His chest rose and fell heavily as he twisted toward her, his blue eyes blazing. He froze when he saw the blood smeared across her neck. His face went horribly pale. Agony lanced through his chest, so sharp it stoleherbreath.
“No,” he gasped, his voice strangled.
Amryn tried to speak, to reassure him, but she couldn’t. The pain was too much. And if she opened her mouth, she was going to vomit.
Carver staggered over to her, crashing to his knees. They were away from the press of the crowd, but pandemonium was all around them.
Her sole focus was Carver. There was blood in his hair, coming from a wound at his temple. One of his eyes already showed evidence of swelling.
He didn’t seem aware of his own injuries as he leaned over her. “No, no, no,no.” His voice cracked and his hands trembled as he checked the bloody slice on her neck. Relief slammed into him the moment he realized it wasn’t a mortal wound. “Bleeding Saints,” he cursed. And yet, in that guttural, raw tone, it almost sounded like a prayer.
