Page 1 of Esperance

Chapter 1

Amryn

Carver Vincetti.

The name rang in Amryn’s ears as the tall double doors swung open, revealing a long aisle that stretched the length of the vaulted chapel. Bright tropical flowers and emerald fronds in large gold pots brought splashes of color to the otherwise dull, tan stone room. Wooden pews creaked as spectators craned their necks to look at her, though her eyes were drawn to the altar at the end of the aisle, and the dark-haired man who stood waiting for her. She had only learned his identity a moment before those doors opened, but Carver Vincetti was about to become her husband.

If he didn’t discover her secrets and kill her, she just might live long enough to see him die.

In the corner, a string quartet played the empirical anthem, the notes resonant and strong as they echoed against the stone columns that ringed the chapel.

She hated every note.

Sheathed in her wedding dress, beads of sweat gathered along her spine. Even this deep in the temple, surrounded by stone, the oppressive heat of the jungle was stifling. The style and weight of her gown was impractical in this climate, and the humidity had wreaked havoc on her hair. Her maids had made a valiant effort to tame the uncontrollable crimson waves, but they’d soon had no choice but to admit defeat. Instead of the Ferradin bridal tradition of loose hair, they’d twisted and pinned until her flaming locks were piled into an elaborate bun atop her head. In truth, it was a mercy; she wouldn’t have been able to stand feeling anything against her neck when it felt like her skin was melting. The fitted bodice was too tight across her chest, and the very air felt different as it entered her lungs. Nothing like the cool mountain air of home.

If she’d been getting married in Ferradin, she would have held wildflowers in varying shades of purple, blue, and white. The bouquet she held instead was filled with tropical flowers with sharp edges, in vibrant colors of pink, orange, and yellow. The foreign flowers trembled in her hands. She tightened her grip until her knuckles were as white as her dress.

She could not afford to show weakness.

Amryn lifted her chin. Despite the pounding of her heart and the twisting in her gut, she forced herself to step forward. The thinly carpeted floor was cold and hard beneath the thin soles of her elegant shoes, and her long gown dragged at her legs, but she kept moving.

Behind her, the chapel doors thudded softly closed. The sound was hauntingly final.

Too many emotions churned in the room for Amryn to decipher anything specific, but she felt a familiar pulse from her uncle Rix. He was the only face in the crowd she knew, and she picked him out easily. He sat about halfway down the aisle on the left side of the chapel. His green eyes were fixed on her, and though he was only in his late thirties, his brown hair had been rapidly replaced by gray when the emperor’s edict had arrived. He wore the expected empirical black, but a sash of blue, white, and gold plaid draped over one shoulder and across his chest. It was a little bit of Ferradin, and Amryn needed that reminder of home.

Her focus shifted to the front pew, where four couples sat side by side. That meant, after Amryn’s wedding, there would be only one more today.

Twelve strangers. Six marriages. One year in Esperance. That was the emperor’s decree, and none of them had any choice in it.

Amryn was halfway down the long aisle now, and she could no longer avoid studying her future husband.

Carver Vincetti stood at strict attention before the altar, his feet planted shoulder-width apart and his spine rigidly straight as he faced the room. He was younger than she’d expected, probably twenty-five or so—only a few years older than her twenty years. He looked as dark as his reputation, though, with black hair that fell over his brow and bronzed skin that hinted at his southern heritage. His nose was long and straight, his jaw angular and covered with dark stubble. That shadow of a beard seemed at odds with his military uniform, which was empirical black and immaculately tailored to fit his wide shoulders, long arms, and tapered waist. While he had no visible weapons, there was no doubt he was a capable killer. Even from this distance she could see the piercing blue of his eyes—the lightest of his features by far. And when those aquamarine eyes sharpened on her, raking her from head to toe and marking every detail, every hair on her body lifted.

Then their gazes locked, and there was no fighting her shiver. In the coldness of his eyes, she saw the Carver Vincetti that was whispered about throughout the empire. The emperor’s favorite general. The heir to the throne of Westmont. The man that many simply calledthe Butcher.

She refused to break this stare. Instinct screamed that doing so would be a critical mistake. So, even though her pulse skipped faster, she didn’t look away.

Carver’s expression didn’t alter, which made it impossible to guess his thoughts. And with so many people in the room, Amryn couldn’t get a read on his emotions.

If the man even had any.

Finally—and yet far too soon—she stood before him. He was taller than her by nearly a head, but she lifted her chin in order to keep his gaze.

He held out a hand, and under the watchful eyes of the high cleric and a chapel full of witnesses, she set her palm against his.

Carver’s long fingers curled around hers, his grip strong, yet surprisingly careful. As if he feared his larger hand could crush hers. His skin was rough with callouses, and he wore a silver ring with a simple band on his forefinger. He smelled of warm sandalwood with a hint of spice. Standing this close to him, she could see a pale scar that traced over his chin, nearly hidden by the black stubble that coated the lower half of his face.

Carver turned, pulling her with him to face the altar and the high cleric. The older man had a shaved head, as all clerics did, though his robes were more elaborate and colorful than the simple brown ones the low-ranking clerics wore. He gave them a small smile and gestured for them to kneel at the altar.

The music faded as they knelt together on the narrow cushioned bench, their hands still joined. The high cleric began to recite the marriage prayer. It was filled with promises of love, care, trust, and fidelity, and Amryn let the meaningless words float over her.

Now that she was closer to Carver, she might be able to discern his emotions from all the other chaotic feelings in the room. She glanced sideways, relaxing slightly when she saw his attention riveted on the high cleric.

His jaw was set firmly, but not harshly. A soldier, accepting orders. As she studied his profile, it truly appeared that Carver felt nothing. So she reached out with her empathic sense, gently probing the space between them until, finally, she felt him.

Carver Vincetti was not emotionless. Seething just below the surface of his unwavering expression, she felt frustration, surprise, irritation, determination, impatience . . . and fear.

Shock rippled through her, and she must have made some sound or tightened her hold on his hand, because his blue eyes darted to hers. This time, she was prepared for the intensity of his stare. But she was not prepared for the slight twist of his lips.

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