The answer surprised her. Not just because it was an unexpected admission from a warrior like Ivan, but because it was a truth spoken without apprehension. He was able to admit such a thing because he had nothing to fear from the knights. And the way he was looking at her made it clear he thoughtshehad something to fear.
Her pulse kicked up. “What doesil mishkamean?”
Ivan stared at her for a long moment, the air growing taut. Then, his voice a low rumble, he said, “It meanslittle miracle.” He paused. “Notlittlein a belittling way, but as a sort of endearment.”
Little miracle.That’s what he’d been calling her all this time.
Her heart thundered.
He knew. He had to.
His stare was intense, as it always was, but he didn’t say anything more. Didn’t ask her any questions or try to force any confessions.
She returned his stare, just as silent. To ask him outright if he knew what she was would only betray her secret, though she was certain now that he’d guessed the truth. Ivan knew she was an empath. She could feel it in her bones.
Heat climbed her cheeks. She had to say something. Her lips parted. “Oh.”
His stare sharpened, and she mentally cursed herself. She needed to say something more thanthat.
She cleared her throat. “That’s a strange thing to call me.”
His head tilted to the side. “Why?”
“Because I’m not a worker of miracles.”
“That seems to be a matter of opinion,il mishka.” His voice was a gentle murmur. And from him, all she felt was an overwhelming sense of protection. Aneedto defend her.
She didn’t understand it, but she knew her secret was safe with him. She wasn’t ready to confirm her empathy aloud—it was too ingrained in her to keep the secret—but her eyes burned with sudden tears, and emotion pinched her throat. It took a long moment before she knew she could speak without betraying her emotions. “I appreciate you wanting to check on me.”
Ivan tightened his hold on the towel, which was still pressed against her wounded arm. His voice was as formal as usual, even though the very air had shifted around them. “I am always at your service, Amryn. Whatever you need.”
She knew his offer had nothing to do with the debt he believed he owed her. “Why?” she asked.
“You remind me of a friend I had. One who . . . helped me as you did, when I was gravely injured.” His forehead creased. “We were only children, so, when he needed my protection, I was not able to save him.”
Her stomach pitched. “He was . . .?”
Old grief swelled as he confirmed, “He was killed by a knight. Executed.”
She closed her eyes tightly. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. To Ivan, and also to a young boy who had been unjustly killed.
“As am I.” There was a short pause before Ivan asked, “Are you safe from the knights?”
“Yes.” It was the most she dared tell him, since talking about the bloodstone didn’t seem wise.
Ivan’s curiosity was as strong as his confusion, but he didn’t demand to know how she’d evaded the detection of a knight. He merely nodded. “Good.”
Footsteps pounded in the corridor before the door burst open. Carver rushed in, his eyes wide and his breaths coming hard and fast. His eyes locked on her, and his relief, panic, and low-burning anger slammed into her.
“Amryn.” His voice was a hoarse rasp.
“She will be fine,” Ivan said, keeping pressure on her wound even as he moved to stand beside the bed.
Carver darted forward and took Ivan’s place on the bed, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch Amryn’s cheek. It was the one that throbbed from striking the stone floor when Ford had tackled her.
Her throat was tight, especially feeling the crushing weight of Carver’s roaring emotions. Heat gathered at the back of her eyes, but she managed to say, “I’m all right. It was just a graze.”
“A physician is coming,” Ivan added.
