He could only stare. Saints, he’d been so blind. Just because she could feel his emotions didn’t mean she understood them. She might try to guess the reason behind what he was feeling—and with her experience and skill, she was probably right most of the time—but that didn’t make her infallible. She could misinterpret things. She might feel something from him and think it was about her, or because of her. Amryn’s gift was so incredible, he hadn’t even considered that sometimes she could be wrong.
So utterly wrong.
He didn’t bother to hide the growl in his words. “I won’t deny that I was afraid today.”
She flinched.
“I was horrified at the risk you took,” he clarified. “Healing me out in the open like that? Even after I told you Rhone was nearby? Using the bloodstone—a thing that nearly killed you the last time you used it? I was bloody terrified.” He stepped forward, until there were mere inches between them. She watched him with sharp eyes, that sheen of tears back in evidence. Slowly, he cupped her unbruised cheek. Willed her to keep eye contact, to understand him fully as he said, “I was never—not once—afraid ofyou, Amryn. I was afraidforyou.”
A single tear tracked down her cheek. Disbelief churned in her eyes as she shook her head. There was a pained pinch in her words that hadn’t been there before as she said, “I don’t believe you.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“How can I believe you when you don’t trust me?”
“What are you talking about? Of course I trust you.” He’d trusted her in Esperance. Trusted her at every turn.
A bit of heat entered her eyes. Saints, he didn’t want her angry again, but anything was better than the raw devastation that had been there a moment ago. “I’ve shared more with you than I’ve ever shared with anyone else. I’ve handed you my secrets, trusting you completely with them, but you refuse to return even a fraction of that trust. You won’t truly talk to me. Not about the things that matter. How you’re coping with Argent’s loss, or about your nightmares. You don’t talk about your time in Harvari or what happened to you there.”
He'd stopped breathing at some point during her impassioned speech. The lack of air made his words come out too low. “I don’t speak about that with anyone.”
“Maybe you should.”
Pain. Terror. Helplessness.Those remembered feelings only served to bring out his anger. It was his only defense. He gritted his teeth. “I had no idea you thought so little of me. That you regretted trusting me.”
Hurt cut through her eyes, but her jaw remained tight. “I never regretted trusting you. Not until right now.”
The words were a blow. To keep from reaching for her, he fisted his hands at his sides. His words were hard as he asked, “If circumstances hadn’t forced your hand, would you ever have told me that you were an empath?”
“No.”
He stared at her, hardly believing her. “After everything we’ve been through, you truly don’t trust me? You think I would betray you?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
She may as well have stabbed him. He stepped back, his chest too tight, his words thin and hard. “There are things I don’t want to talk about, I admit that. But what could I possibly have done to make you think I’deverbetray you?”
“I can’t afford to trust anyone.”
“I’m not just anyone. I’m—” He cut himself off, frustration choking him.I’m your husband, he wanted to scream at her. He’d sworn to protect her. Hehadprotected her. And yet shestill didn’t trust him? That infuriated him. More thanthat, ithurt.How blind had he been to miss this? Every time they’d been alone, had she distrusted him? Had she feared him whenever he’d touched her? Kissed her? The thought made his gut roll.
He eased back a step, his heart hammering against his ribs while bile rose in the back of his throat. “You know how I feel about you.” He shoved a hand through his hair, fingers tightening as he clenched the strands. He exhaled a harsh laugh. “I took a knife for you today—twice.How much more proof do you need that I would do anything to protect you?”
She cringed. At his words, his tone, or the raging storm of emotions she must be feeling from him, he didn’t know. But an answering storm churned in her eyes. “That was today, Carver. What about tomorrow?”
“I don’t know how to convince you if you’re set on disbelieving me,” he ground out. “But I wouldneverbetray—”
“My own father betrayed me!”
Her shouted words crashed between them, ringing in the horrible silence that followed. Carver stared at her, the flames of his anger freezing as he tried to make sense of words that were incomprehensible.
His mind flashed back to what she’d said in Esperance, the night she’d told him she was an empath. Words that had been overshadowed by the threat of her brother, and the bloodstone, and everything else that had risen up to haunt them. Words he should have latched onto much, much sooner.
“My father isn’t dead. At least, not as far as I know. He just left me for dead a long time ago.”
Left her for dead . . .
Carver couldn’t breathe.No. Saints, don’t let it be that . . .
