Amryn’s gaze slid between them, the skin around her eyes tightening.
Carver looked to Rhone. “I need to get Ford out of here. Can you coordinate with the city guards?”
“Of course,” Rhone said. “I’ll handle everything.”
“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 tokillher. 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 slowto 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 . ..
