Page 50 of Esperance

Ivan shot him a look.

Carver lifted a hand. “I don’t mean to pry. It’s just . . . well, nothing about this experience has been what I expected.”

A muscle in Ivan’s jaw ticked as he once again focused on the corridor that stretched before them. The only sounds were their boots against stone. Then, “Cora is of a delicate constitution and easily startled. She has many fears and anxieties, and I do not know how to . . .” His words drifted, and the muscles in his shoulders bunched. “I have found that she is uncomfortable any time we are alone, so I try never to be alone with her.” He looked at Carver. “Is your wife afraid of you?”

The question caught him off guard, and he wasn’t sure how to answer. “I think she’s cautious,” he finally said.

Ivan nodded once, the motion clipped. “That is fair.”

It really was. His name alone chilled the blood of enemy soldiers. That was a good thing, his father had told him.Let your reputation grow far beyond who you really are. Let it be vicious and bloodthirsty. Because if the mere mention of your name can give armies pause, then a battle may be averted, and countless lives on both sides could be saved.

It had never bothered him that people called him the Butcher. It didn’t matter if his friends or family heard it, because he knew they wouldn’t look at him any differently—they knew him.

Amryn didn’t. And it bothered him that she might think of him asthe Butcher.

It didn’t help that—after returning from Harvari—he could barely stand to hear the nickname. Probably because it felt too true.

Carver cleared his throat. “I fought beside Wolves in Harvari.”

Ivan’s head tilted slightly to the side as he looked toward Carver.

Saints, that topic change had been too abrupt.

“It was difficult to let them go,” Ivan said. “To know they would die so far from home.” He rubbed at his arm, and it was only then Carver remembered he had been injured during the wedding feast.

“They saved many lives,” Carver said. “Entire villages were defended with only a handful of Wolves left to guard them.”

“You wonder why I did not go with them,” Ivan said bluntly.

“Yes,” Carver said, just as directly.

They both stopped in the middle of the empty corridor, and Ivan met his stare. “I did not abandon my Pack,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“The emperor called for the best Wolves, but you didn’t come.”

He bristled. “I am no coward.”

“Then why didn’t you come?”

“I did not stay behind by choice. My father—my king—commanded me to remain at home.”

“Why?”

Ivan took a step forward, and Carver’s body stiffened in alert.

But the Sibeten didn’t strike him. He only glowered. “My mother had just buried one son. She could not have survived burying another, so he assigned me a task at home.” He leaned back, fully glaring at Carver now. “You tell me what is easier, General. Bleeding alongside your men, or watching them march away, knowing that none of them are likely to return?”

Carver held his stare, his skin feeling too tight as he said, “I know the pain of both.”

Ivan blinked. But before he could form a response, a terrible shriek rent the air.

Carver’s hand instinctively dropped to his belt, but, of course, he had no weapons. He and Ivan turned together and sprinted toward the screaming, which continued at a hysterical pitch and rang shrilly against the stone walls. It seemed to be coming from one of the many sitting rooms at the end of the hall; a fact that was confirmed by the cluster of clerics, servants, and guards gathered near the doorway.

Trepidation shot through Carver as he and Ivan shouldered their way through the crowd.

Standing just outside the doorway of the sitting room was a maid. The young woman was no longer screaming, though she was crying as a female cleric gripped her arms and shook her. “Mathe, what is it? What’s wrong?”

The woman’s eyes were wild, and the terror on her face made Carver’s gut fall.

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