Still on his knees, Carver gathered her into his arms, one palm braced behind her head so he could cradle her close. She buried her face in his shoulder, mindful of her throbbing cheek. She felt his mouth against the curve of her neck.
“You’re all right,” he rasped, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. “Saints, I thought . . .” He shuddered, his hold on her tightening.
She clung to him so fiercely she could barely breathe. Holding each other, everything else ceased to exist for one eternal moment.
Then over Carver’s shoulder, Amryn caught movement. Another masked attacker coming for them. She tensed.
It was all the warning Carver needed. Or perhaps his battle instincts were just that heightened. He surged to his feet, twisting to face the oncoming danger.
Too late. He was too late, because the knife was already angling for his body.
Amryn didn’t even have time to gasp before the blade slammed into Carver’s gut, all the way to the hilt. His entire body jerked from the force of the blow.
For all the agony Amryn had felt today, nothing compared to this.
She screamed, grief and pain tearing through her as she felt that blade lodge deep inside Carver.
He wavered on his feet, then grunted as the knife was yanked out. He managed to catch the attacker’s wrist before the blade could rise to strike him again. In a move almost too fast to track, the knife was buried in the attacker’s gut.
She felt that blow, too.
Carver kicked the man away, and the attacker fell to his knees on the ground.
Amryn scrambled to her feet, every part of her aching. “Carver!”
He twisted to face her, his eyes wide. When he stumbled, Amryn grasped his arm.
He latched onto her, his fingers digging into her shoulders—to hold her or to steady himself, she wasn’t sure. His usually bronzed skin was pale. His gaze became dangerously unfocused as he peered at her. Sweat streaked his brow, making strands of his dark hair stick to his forehead and mix with the blood at his temple.
The chaos of the square continued around them, but Amryn heard nothing beyond a horrible ringing in her ears as she and Carver both looked down at the wound in his stomach. Blood bloomed through his shirt, already drenching his abdomen.
He sagged, and Amryn struggled to hold him upright. They staggered back, past the overturned fruit cart. Her spine hit the rough stone of a building behind her. Carver released her with one hand so he could brace a forearm against the wall beside her head.
He blinked down at her. “It’s all right,” he rasped. “It’s—”
His body slammed against hers as a blade was shoved into his back.
His pained gasp was the loudest sound in the world.
Her eyes slashed to the man standing over Carver’s shoulder. She tried to push out of her husband’s grasp, sobs wracking her when he kept her pinned against the wall. Protecting her, even now. Shielding her with his body.
Carver groaned as the blade in his back was dragged out, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away from her. She felt how weak his legs were. Knew that if he moved, he’d fall.
He knew it, too. And he refused to fall. Refused to leave her vulnerable.
She grasped his shoulders and tried to push him aside, the pain in her hands barely registering as she screamed at him to move before—
The attacker raised his blade again. Amryn screamed.
Then Ford was there, tackling the man.
Amryn was hardly aware as the two men fought. Her attention was on Carver. His breathing was strained, and his entire body trembled. He met her gaze, his eyes cloudy. “Amryn . . .” He crumpled.
She fell with him, still caged between his body and the wall.
He couldn’t die. She wouldn’tlethim. It didn’t matter that they were in the heart of the empire. It didn’t matter that they were in a crowded square. Amryn ignored every risk, every person who would condemn or kill her for this.
Carver was all that mattered.
