Broken Dove
Page 4

“I would not harm you, Ilsa,” he gritted from between clenched teeth.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled unconvincingly as anyone would, seeing as I was staring at the wrath in his eyes and listening to him talk between his teeth.
The pads of his fingers pressed surprisingly gently into my cheek and he dipped his face closer.
“Never,” he whispered, his tone fierce and still angry but something struck me.
This was not just a word. It also wasn’t a promise.
It was a vow.
What the hell was happening?
I knew what wasn’t happening. I wasn’t in my bed. There were no police sirens sounding. And the green was gone. Giving that a millisecond of reflection, that green was not right.
Nothing was right.
So, considering nothing was right, I knew I had to get this new Pol out of my face so I could take stock and make a new plan.
Therefore I breathed, “Okeydokey.”
His head tipped slightly to the side and his dark brows twitched.
“Okeydokey?” he asked.
Oh boy.
Why did his deep voice saying that ridiculous word low and bemused make my mouth get dry at the same time it made me want to smile in a moment that was so far from smile-worthy, it was not funny.
Shit!
I didn’t know who this guy was or what was happening. What I did know was that I’d been here before. I’d looked at that handsome face with those fabulous lips and that head of rich, dark, thick hair. I’d looked into those amazing eyes that were pure jade. No joke. They were a milky, translucent green that was so beautiful, once you caught sight of it you never wanted to look away. All of this on a tall, commanding body that made my knees weak and my ni**les get hard.
Years ago, I’d looked at all that was him and I’d made the biggest mistake in my life.
And that was not going to happen again, even if I was currently comatose from a pistol-whipping brain injury and not experiencing any of this at all.
His hand at my cheek slid down to my neck. I focused on him when it did and he spoke.
“I don’t know his word, my dove.”
Who didn’t know the word “okeydokey?”
I didn’t ask that.
I explained. Quickly.
“It means okay. Fine. Good. All right. In this case, I believe you.”
“If you do, why do you press yourself against the pillows still?” he asked.
“Habit?” I said the word as a question as well as an answer and it was another mistake.
His face started to darken again with anger so I lifted up a hand, palm toward him and kept babbling.
“Okay, don’t go all freaky on me again. It’s cool. I’m good. I’ll relax.” I forced myself to relax (slightly) and pointed it out by indicating myself with a sweep of the hand. “See. Relaxed. I’m chilling. It’s all good. I’m fine.”
“You lie,” he said softly. “You lie with very strange words, but you still lie.”
God!
I needed to get myself together. Although he said that softly, my guess would be he didn’t like liars (because no one liked liars) and I needed to keep him calm, not rile him up.
“I—” I started to try and cover my lie but he cut me off.
“You don’t know where you are or who I am. You’ve been kicked and sustained a blow to your face. And you’ve witnessed—”
I closed my eyes tight and requested, “Please, let’s not do a blow by blow.”
His fingers gave my neck a squeeze and I opened my eyes. “I needed to disarm him, Ilsa,” he explained, his voice still soft.
“By cutting off his hand?” I asked and his brows drew together.
It was a scary look.
Uh-oh.
“You concern yourself with his welfare?” he asked back.
“I actually don’t care what happens to Pol. I just don’t want to see it happen. And that was some sick shit, but cutting off his head—”
He interrupted me, his brows still drawn, his look no less scary. “I did not take his head.”
He didn’t?
Well, I guessed that was why I didn’t hear a head hit the floor.
I thought on this a nanosecond and decided to take it as good news.
“And if he gets attention for his wound and it’s cauterized, he’ll not lose his life due to losing his hand,” the new Pol went on.
I decided to take that as good news too simply because I was a human being and it was required of me.
The new Pol then finished, “I hit him on the side of his head with the flat of my saber. He lost consciousness, but not his life.”
Well, there you go.
“Okeydokey,” I replied, his eyes lit and his mouth quirked.
Oh boy.
That look wasn’t scary. It was something else altogether.
“Could I interrupt at this juncture, chéri, and suggest you get a cool compress, ice if it’s available, raw meat if it’s not?” the polished female voice came at us and I was glad of it because new Pol lifted a few inches away and turned his head to peer into the shadows.
I looked beyond him and saw, through not very good lighting, a willowy redhead in a fabulous green dress and way more fabulous green slingback platform pumps, top to toe as slick and urbane as her voice would lead you to believe.
“Her cheek is swelling. It may not be too late for the ice to contain some of it,” she continued and the new Pol was up in a flash.
“I’ll see to this immediately,” he stated, moving swiftly, his cape swinging out dramatically behind him (which unusually, but awesomely, was set at a slant along his back—over one shoulder, under the other) and then it swung again when he stopped and turned back to me. “Rest. I will return shortly,” he ordered then he looked at the redhead and kept at it. “See to her until I return.”
After issuing his commands, he disappeared into the shadows and I heard a door open and close.
My eyes shifted to the woman.
When they did, I saw her move into the shadows but she came back into the circle of weak light pulling an elegant armchair with her, positioning it close to the bed.
Without a word, she again disappeared into the shadows. I stared in the direction she disappeared, my focus on her and what might come next in this bizarreness, only vaguely noting that I was on a somewhat large bed with an arched footboard that had light-colored padding on it which was just as elegant as the armchair. I also noted the coverlet I was lying on was quilted, it was satin (satin!) and it looked in the dim light like it might be some shade of blue.
She reappeared carrying two wineglasses filled with red wine. And they were not just any wineglasses. Like the chair, footboard and coverlet, they were elegant—finely etched and gracefully blown.