Carver cocked his head to the side. “What?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
Wren giggled.
“He doesn’t even know we’re here,” Fowler whispered gleefully.
Carver’s lips twitched.
Alora mouthed an apology to Amryn, even as she waved her children toward the door.
Ivan took Elowen’s hand as they followed.
Ford positioned Carver so he was facing Amryn, but still several paces away. He clapped Carver on the back. “You’re a lucky man, Carve.” He backed away, giving Amryn a last smile before he eased the door closed.
Carver stood there, still blindfolded. “Do I ever get to take this off?”
“You can take it off,” Amryn said softly.
Carver tugged the blindfold away. He blinked in the fading light of sunset, but the second he saw her, he froze.
“Surprise,” she whispered. Her pulse raced as his eyes ran over her. So many emotions rolled through him. Wonder. Appreciation. Awe. Everything about his reaction made her heart pound.
“What’s all this?” he asked, though his eyes barely flickered to take in their surroundings.
“You’ve been working so hard. I wanted us to have a meal together where we couldn’t easily be interrupted.” She pulled a face. “I didnottell Ford to use a blindfold, though. Sorry.”
His eyes held hers. “If this is my reward, I can handle temporary blindness.”
Her breathing thinned as he approached slowly. Deliberately. Anticipation tightened the air between them until finally he was standing right before her. In the flickering glow of the lanterns, his palms lifted to cradle her face. His eyes searchedhers. “I am the luckiest man alive,” he whispered. Then he leaned in, his lips finding hers with a gentle caress.
Tingles spread through her. She pressed a hand to his jacket—a dark green one she couldn’t ever remember him wearing, but it reminded her of the deep pine forests of home. His spicy sandalwood scent, familiar and heady, made her melt.
When he pulled back, she felt a little dizzy. Holding onto him, she said, “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.” The way he was looking at her sent molten heat through her veins.
She cleared her throat. “Forfood.”
“Oh.” His dimple flashed. “That, too.”
She could feel the pangs of his hunger, and she had to wonder if he’d skipped the midday meal. It wouldn’t be the first time. She tugged him toward the table. It was laden with an array of Carver’s favorite Westmont dishes—including a steaming, foul-smelling pot of coffee.
“Now Iknowyou love me,” he teased when he spotted it.
Once he helped her into her chair, he took his own seat and they began to eat. They talked and laughed easily, sharing childhood memories, favorite foods, and anything else that came to mind. They didn’t talk about investigations, rebels, or prophecies—and it was wonderful. The lanterns glowed around them and the stars grew ever brighter above them.
She asked about his wood carving, and he explained that he’d learned the art from his grandmother—the one who had made the carved panther Amryn had once admired on his bookshelf, as it turned out.
“She taught all of us the basics,” Carver said. “Once we were old enough that she trusted us not to cut off our fingers, of course. It was an effort to keep us still, I think, but I enjoyed it.”
“You’re very talented,” she said, recalling Fowler’s beautifully carved box.
Carver murmured his thanks, and Amryn sensed the swell of emotions building within him. “I used to make carvings all the time. My siblings loved them. When I was in Harvari, I made little toys for the children in the villages we protected.” He released a slow, thin exhale. “There was one boy . . . I gave him a carved horse. He was so excited. He carried it everywhere.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “A week later, I had to help bury him.”
Amryn’s heart broke for that young boy—and for the general who still cared so much about him.
Later, she brought up Ford’s painting and asked what Carver turned to in order to fight his demons.
