Page 83 of Esperance

“Amryn, wait.”

Her fingernails dug into her palms, but she twisted to face Carver. “Yes?”

A furrow grew between his dark brows. “Where are you going?”

“The museum. I promised to help this afternoon.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. His unease rippled out and made her skin itch. “Are you sure you’re up for that? You’re still recovering.”

“I’m fine.”

“I could come with you.”

“No, that isn’t necessary.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No thank you.”

She couldn’t quite read what flickered in his eyes. It was too quick, and his emotions were still clamped down tight. He took a single step forward, his voice lowered even though they were alone in the corridor. “You didn’t say anything in there. Not a single word.”

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

His eyes narrowed. “Somehow I doubt that.”

She looked away, her heart thumping in her chest. “I really need to go, Carver.”

“You don’t have any opinions on the war, or a single question for me?”

She said nothing.

After a long moment, he let out a short, hard laugh. “And here I thought we were past this.”

Her eyes darted to him. “Past what?”

“The silences. I thought we were making progress and getting to know each other, but you’re as much a mystery as the day I met you. And you don’t seem to care about figuring me out—you’ve already made your assumptions.” He took a step back. “I’ll find a guard to escort you.”

As he turned on his heel, she couldn’t help herself. “Why do they call you the Butcher?”

He froze. Pulses of despair and fury hit her, a tangled mess that made her lungs catch.

He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression hard as he said, “I think you can figure that out.”

His footsteps echoed her hammering pulse as he strode away.

Chapter 22

Carver

Carver sipped his wine, his spine stiffas he sat at the long dinner table. Amryn was beside him, but they hadn’t spoken to each other since the incident in the hall after the failed council meeting.

What truly bothered him wasn’t the things Ivan had said, or what anyone else in that room thought. It was the way Amryn had looked at him. Judged him. Dismissed him. When he’d followed her into the hall, his intent had been to reassure her. And when she’d viewed him so coldly . . .

His hands tightened on the stem of his glass, and he took another deep swallow.

Self-loathing, disgust, horror—fear. It was all a part of him, and this afternoon had dragged everything to the surface. His defensiveness was the only weapon he had, but it had proved a feeble shield today. It was hard to justify death, and harder still to come to terms with the fact that he was perhaps the most hated man in Harvari. But if the war was necessary—if he’d done the right thing by fighting and bleeding there—then he wasn’t the monster he felt like. The men he’d lost, the villages that had burned—it would have been a worthwhile sacrifice, if the end result was for the greater good. If he had been captured, tortured, and nearly killed for a reason . . .

It was the only thing that kept him sane. He had to believe the cost was worth it.