His bloody hand clenched around his longsword, Carver stalked forward.
The rebel cringed back, using Amryn as a shield. “Stop, or I’ll—”
Amryn doubled over as she threw up.
The rebel released her with a disgusted hiss.
A growl tore from Carver as Amryn stumbled, tripping on her skirt and crashing to her hands and knees.
The rebel bolted.
Carver burned with the need to chase him down, but the need to reach Amryn was stronger.
He fell to his knees beside her, dropping his sword so he could grab hold of her.
She was trembling, the back of one hand wiping her mouth. The other was braced against the cobblestones, fingers curled so tightly her knuckles were leeched of all color. Tears filled her eyes. She was shaking.
She was in agony.
His throat constricted, making words impossible. He simply pulled her into his arms, pressing his lips to the top of her head. Breathing her in—holding her—loosened the vice around his chest enough for him to say, “It’s all right. You’re all right. I’ve got you.”
Witnessing her pain was excruciating. Knowing there was nothing he could do to soothe it made him half-mad. He gave her hushed words. A firm embrace. But even as he did that, he wanted to curse. She had the bloodstone. It was supposed to protect her. If it couldn’t do its job and shield her from the suffering and death around them, what was the bloody point of it?
Then he tensed. What if her pain wasn’t merely emotional? He’d seen no marks, but— “Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head, and some of his tension released.
He reached for the ring on her hand, gently pushing the gem back into place so she wouldn’t accidentally prick herself—or him—with the needle.
“It worked,” she croaked. “I used it on Tam.” Her breathing was uneven, and she was still too rigid in his arms. “I couldn’t let her escape, but . . .”
He ran a hand over her hair, trying to soothe her. And perhaps himself. “I don’t care about that. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
She grabbed his wrist, her eyes sharp. “Carver, sheknows.”
His brow furrowed—then ice shot through his veins. Tam knew Amryn was an empath. The second she regained consciousness, she could begin telling anyone who would listen.
“Carver! Amryn!” Ford skidded into the alley, eyes wide. He paled at the sight of them on the ground. “Is she—?”
“I’m fine,” Amryn broke in. Her voice sounded stronger.
Carver was still grappling with the imminent threat Tam posed when Ivan arrived, his expression a mask of lethal intensity.
Ford spotted Janson’s body. “Did Jamir escape, then?”
“He’s in the wagon,” Amryn said. She swallowed hard, her revulsion clear as she said, “Janson killed him.”
Ivan moved to look in the wagon while Ford gave a low whistle. “No loyalty among rebels, apparently.”
“Jamir knew the identity of the rebel leader,” Amryn said, her expression grim. “As soon as Janson realized escape wasn’t possible, he killed Jamir so the secret would die with him.” She looked at Carver. “Janson was Bram’s superior. He’s been a rebelall this time.”
Carver had pieced that together. One thing he didn’t know was—
“Why did he wish to take you,il mishka?” Ivan asked, stealing Carver’s question.
The skin around Amryn’s eyes tightened. “Apparently, the leader of the Rising wanted to see me.”
Carver stiffened. “Why?”
