Page 157 of Esperance

“You can share it with Jayveh.” He dropped the coin and amulet, which landed on the floor beside Amryn. Then he popped the cork and brought it to her lips.

She twisted her head aside. “Not—enough. Tam only kept—for herself. One dose.”

She shuddered against him, and he ground his teeth as his heart fractured.

Saving Amryn was the selfish choice. And, Saints, he’d never wanted to be selfish more in his life. But Jayveh carried the heir to the empire. And while Ford might be able to rally enough guards to save Argent, the poison was going to finish what Tam had started.

His friend was probably going to die either way. And that tore something deep inside him.

Jayvehneeded to live. Argent’schildneeded to live.

Carver pressed a kiss to Amryn’s temple. “I’ll be back,” he promised. “I’ll be right back, and I won’t leave you again.”

He laid her on the floor, and she curled into a tight ball, her breaths fast and uneven, heavy with agony.

Carver stood, and a stabbing pain ripped through his middle and seared his insides. The burn had become an inferno in one devastating wave.

He staggered and knocked into the nearest bookshelf, struggling to keep the vial upright in his hand.

“Carver!” The pain in Amryn’s voice was even more extreme than before.

He fell to his knees, one arm banded around his middle, the other shaking with the antidote.

He’d never reach Jayveh. Not like this.

I’m sorry.

The words were for Argent, Jayveh, Ford, his family, the emperor—everyone.

He crawled back to Amryn, each movement taking all his willpower. When he reached her, it took the final dregs of his strength to tip the vial against her lips.

She swallowed the antidote, not even seeming aware of doing so, her eyes hazed with agony.

He didn’t know if it would work. If it was too late. But as soon as the vial was empty, he dropped it, and it clattered and rolled across the stone floor.

He dropped next to Amryn, his gut on fire and his world going fuzzy as his vision clouded. Nausea churned. His head hit the floor, and he couldn’t lift it. He reached blindly for Amryn, and when he found her fingers, he clenched her hand in his.

“Carver?” He felt her body shift beside his. “Carver!” Her free hand swept over his brow. “What did you do?” Pain still clutched her words, but it sounded different.

Or perhaps that was wishful thinking—that the antidote would work quickly, and that she would live.

Please, let her live.

“No. No, no, no, no, no . . .”

She pulled back, and he groaned, his head rocking as he strained to feel her hand against his face again.

Then one of her hands was on his abdomen, and Carver felt a strange tug. It reached all the way to his spine, and his back arched off the floor.

He was blind with the pain of this torturous death, his thoughts scrambled, but he felt another pull—and then another.

The stabbing pain in his stomach diminished somewhat.

His eyes snapped open.

Amryn was crouched over him, her eyes closed and her face screwed up in concentration, or agony—or both.

Her hand tightened against his stomach, and he felt another tug.