Page 49 of Esperance

After leaving Argent and Jayveh to what remained of their free morning, Carver returned to his suite in search of Amryn. He tried to ignore the flip in his stomach as he opened the main door and stepped into the sitting room, but anticipation hummed through his veins.

What had passed between them before Argent’s interruption had been . . . unexpected. Something as mundane as tending her sunburn had become much more. His fingers still tingled from touching her skin. Her burn had scalded his fingertips, but he’d be lying if he said that was the only reason for the heat he’d felt in that moment.

Images had lodged in his brain that he knew instinctively he’d never be free of. The delicate curve of her neck as she’d captured her braid and pulled it aside. The intensity in her sea-green eyes as she’d met his gaze in the mirror. The way his fingers had brushed just under the curve of her parted lips. He could still hear the tentative edge in her voice as she’d accepted his offer of help. The whisper of every exhale. The way her breath had hitched when he touched her—especially the delicate skin at her throat.

His skin tightened even now, just remembering it. She was so soft. Fragile, yet no less fierce than her fiery curls. She was a mystery, and he was anxious to see her again. To know if the air between them would still be charged. If she would still be vulnerable with him, and share her thoughts. Because he needed to know if he could trust her. At least, that’s what he told himself. Truthfully, he just found himself increasingly interested in getting to knowher.

It didn’t take long to ascertain that she wasn’t in their suite, though. He didn’t know where she would choose to spend her morning, and she’d left no note. A book lay abandoned on one of the cushioned chairs in the sitting room, so perhaps she’d gotten bored and decided to wander the grounds? He somehow doubted that, considering her sunburn.

Intent on finding her, Carver left the apartment and made his way to the nearest staircase. He assumed one of the guards or servants would know where she was, but before he reached someone he could ask, he spotted Ivan.

He’d had brief interactions with all of the Empire’s Chosen by now, but Ivan had been among the most reticent. Carver needed to get to know him if he was going to determine his loyalty. So, with a pang of regret he’d examine later, he pushed aside all thoughts of Amryn and focused on Ivan.

“Good morning,” he called out.

Ivan’s cool blue eyes regarded his approach without any change in his features. “Good morning.” His heavy Sibeten accent was perhaps the most pronounced among them all; it was as rugged as he was. His blonde hair brushed his cheekbones, and his broad form was hulking, even though he was the one standing at the base of the stairs. He wore a thin white shirt that stretched over bulging arms, and he was drenched in sweat.

Carver kept a small smile in place. Friendly, but not as open as the smiles he’d exchanged with Samuel or Darrin. He thought the warrior in Ivan might respond better if he glimpsed a bit of the general.

He tipped his head toward Ivan’s appearance. “You’ve been out in the training yard?”

“Neeyev.I went for a run.” Ivan swiped the back of his hand over his brow. “I must learn my endurance in this inhospitable climate.”

“You know, the frozen lands of Sibet are considered inhospitable by most.”

Ivan arched a brow. “Not by Sibetens.”

The corner of Carver’s mouth twitched. His humor was surprising. Maybe he’d misread the serious-looking man.

That wasn’t exactly an encouraging thought, was it?

He reached the base of the stairs and the two faced each other in the long corridor, which was lined with towering columns and tall windows. “If you truly wish to test your endurance,” Carver said, “perhaps we should spar.”

“Is the Butcher of Westmont so afraid of fighting a Sibeten Wolf that he first must tire his opponent?”

Carver shrugged. “A general must be strategic.”

Ivan snorted, but humor glowed in his eyes—as did challenge. “Very well, I accept.”

Carver dipped his chin and they fell into step together down the hall. “Are you enjoying your morning?”

“Yenn. And I’ll like it even more when I beat you on the field.” He shot Carver a look. “What of you?”

“I like having a little freedom,” Carver said, choosing his words intentionally. “The high cleric’s schedule is . . . time-consuming.”

Ivan grunted. “The high cleric likes to hear himself speak.”

“I think you’re right,” Carver said. “And we’re literally a trapped audience. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the man’s sermons for a year.”

Ivan made a sound in his throat that could have been agreement, but he didn’t verbally respond. He may have simply been done talking, but it could also have to do with the two clerics walking past them—the male and female certainly shot them some looks that made it clear they’d overheard Carver’s statement.

With Carver’s luck, they’d tell Zacharias, and he’d be in for yet another lecture from the high cleric.

Not wanting to lose the conversation completely, Carver changed the subject. “Where is your wife this morning?”

“I am not hersouvrin,” Ivan said, his gaze trained ahead. “She is free to go as she wills.”

Carver heard the unspoken undercurrent to those words. “How are things between you?”