Broken Dove
Page 7

Oh boy.
Carefully, my voice as drowsy and vague as my brain, I said softly, “I don’t think I’m your dove.”
His reply was immediate. “You are my dove.”
“I—”
Another squeeze of the arms, this could not be mistaken for anything but a “shut up squeeze,” before he said, “A dove has great beauty, but is easily broken.”
That was nice and all, poetic even, though a wee bit scary, and last, all true.
However.
“But—”
“She was ‘my beauty,’” he whispered, an ache in his voice that made my stomach hurt and my throat tingle and bad, no matter how out of it I was.
He knew I knew.
And he knew I was not her.
At that ache, I didn’t know why I did it, but it was me who cuddled closer as I whispered back, “I’m sorry.”
On my words, his body stilled for a brief moment before he turned into me and gathered me even closer as he murmured, “As am I.”
“Why are you—?”
He cut me off again with, “I could not save her.”
Oh boy.
He kept going. “But I can save you.”
Oh boy.
“Apollo—”
“Sleep.”
“I—”
“We will talk later. Now, sleep.”
I had a mind to ask about the sleeping arrangements. I also had a mind to thank him for saving me from Pol. Even if the way he did it was over the top and grisly, he still did it. I further had a mind to explore this parallel universe thing a bit more seeing as I was groggy, but I was still obviously there with him so there was a there to be.
Even if I had a mind to all this, I unfortunately blinked a blink that malfunctioned so that when my lids lowered, they stayed that way.
Chapter Three
Be Careful What You Wish For
I felt the sunlight against my eyelids so I opened them.
When I did, I saw a sea of satin sheets that were deep lilac in color covered in a quilted satin bedspread that was pool blue. Beyond that, a vast expanse of room that led to a wall on which there were four sets of arched French doors all covered in wispy, pure white sheers. The woodwork was painted an antique white. The walls a cool pale blue.
Between sets of doors two and three was a French provincial table on which was a large, etched glass vase out of which burst a thick, fluffy array of hydrangea blooms, the majority of them a delicate blue with one deep purple and one rich cream stuck in as a striking, but beautiful, contrast.
It was a room I’d never seen before. Yet I’d woken up in it.
I pushed up in bed, muttering, “What the—?”
Then it all came back to me.
Parallel universe.
The bad seed Pol’s good guy (maybe) twin.
And a witch from New Orleans.
“Shit,” I whispered, feeling the tightness in my face, the ache at my ribs, both very real. And also feeling the bed soft beneath me, the sheets luxurious against my hand, knowing it had all happened.
It had happened.
I looked around the room.
As I’d semi-noted last night, I was in a large bed, bigger than a queen, but not as big as a king. The intricately carved and arched head and footboard were both padded and buttoned in a creamy material, the wood around it painted antique white.
There were two nightstands, both French provincial, the carving also ornate.
On them—I leaned to my side carefully to look closer—there was what looked like extravagant gas lamps, their bases shining silver, their globes milky, frilled and beautifully engraved. My half-drunk wineglass was still there and in the bright sunlight streaming through the curtains, that glass was even more extraordinary.
I pushed up and continued my study of the room.
An enormous antique white wardrobe with four doors, more carving and an arched top. A long, low dresser with nine drawers, the three in the middle narrower than the six at the sides, all their fronts having undulating curves.
There was another bouquet of hydrangeas on the top, this one carrying a majority of creamy white blooms with a couple of pale blue ones added for contrast. On either side, milky globed lamps, taller than the ones on the nightstand but still matching them.
The dresser also held an elegant decanter half-full of wine, with two empty wineglasses, all sitting on a silver tray with a frilled lip.
I turned my head and saw in the far corner a squat, baroque dressing table with a three-sided mirror and a stool in front with a cushion padded in buttoned lilac velvet. The top was void—not a bottle, not a vase, but the piece needed no adornment. Still, it was clear it was unused.
I turned my head the other way and saw a pale blue velvet covered chaise lounge with an arch to the side of the back and sweeping arms at top and foot which sat at a diagonal, aimed for a view out the French doors. In front of the doors at the other side was a seating arrangement of two armchairs, including the one Valentine had sat in which had clearly been moved back. A table sat between them with another, smaller vase filled with purple hydrangea blooms.
The wood floors were covered in rugs with intricate but elusive designs, made so by their muted colors of blues, purples, creams and grays.
And set in the walls were more milky-globed sconces intermingled with black framed, cream matted pencil sketches of women all wearing fabulous, chic but old-fashioned gowns from evening wear to day wear to outdoor gear (I knew the last because they were wearing hats and peeking from around parasols).
The room was lavish, yet classy. Opulent, however still tasteful. It was more of everything I’d ever seen of this style of décor—more intricacy in the carving, the sweeping lines more delicate, the colors lusher. In fact, it was totally over-the-top. But weirdly, it managed to be gracious, not garish.
I concluded my perusal of the space thinking, Okay, this might not be so bad—the appearance of gas lamps and the understanding that Apollo was handy with a sword and Valentine had to explain that a gun was a deadly weapon and what these might mean notwithstanding.
I was about to throw the bedclothes back, get out of bed and find a bathroom (which I hoped they had) and take a look at my face which felt worse than normal, when the door flew open.
My head jerked that way and I saw Apollo striding in.
He was still in romance novel hero clothes.
But these were better.
Dark brown breeches that fit really well and by that I meant like a freaking glove. They left pretty much nothing to the imagination and what they did leave to the imagination, the parts that didn’t told you the rest of it could be nothing but perfection.
And again, this proved he was all Pol because, at least looks-wise, Pol was all that, top to toe. It was just everything else that made him a jackass.