Broken Dove (Fantasyland #4)(4)

This man in his weird clothes did not have any of the looks Pol had given me over the way too many years we were together.

He was gazing at me with a tenderness that was so acute I swear it looked like he was in pain.

And not a little of it, the tenderness or the pain.

“You’re not Pol,” I whispered.

“No. I am not,” he replied, steel threading through his tone, his voice Pol’s voice and yet…not.

His arms held me close as all around us went black.

The loss of the green didn’t concern me. This guy concerned me. This guy who wore weird clothes, knew how to wield a sword and didn’t hesitate using it and looked at me like I was his reason for breathing concerned me.

So I kept talking.

“You’re not a hallucination.”

Some of the tenderness leaked from his eyes but only so amusement could replace it and this was far from unattractive.

“I’m not that either, my dove.”

My dove?

What the hell?

“Do I have a brain injury?” I asked, figuring this was the only explanation, and his eyes dropped to my cheek.

The tenderness and humor vanished before his gaze came back to mine.

“We shall see.”

That wasn’t a good answer.

I mean, I was uncertain about a reality where some dude had beat the shit out of Pol, cut off his hand and maybe his head, but only because there’d be a lot of explaining to do with the police. And I didn’t care what that said about me. Perhaps dismemberment was a wee bit harsh a punishment for all of Pol’s transgressions. But only a wee bit.

I wasn’t uncertain about not wanting to have a brain injury. Pol had inflicted a lot of damage over the years (broken wrist, broken ribs, concussions, contusions, sprained ankles, etc.) but he’d never put me into a coma.

Before I could come to terms with any of this, new Pol was gently lying me down on a bed and it was a fluffy bed that felt great (thus I knew it wasn’t my lumpy bed in my apartment that didn’t feel great).

He muttered to the room at large, “Light,” which I took as an order to the unknown woman I sensed still with us because, within seconds, weak light lit the room.

I didn’t get the chance to process this new impossibility of me being on a comfy bed because he sat by my side and lifted his hand to rest it on my cheek. The flat of his thumb was just below the still stinging, tightening (thus swelling) flesh where Pol hit me with the butt of the gun.

Oh, and he’d bent deep, his face was close to mine and that sweet look was on it again.

“What did you endure prior to our arrival, Ilsa?” he asked, his voice low, deep, warm and chock full of concern.

And near as sweet as his look.

Right. Time to reassess. I was all geared up to defend myself when Pol found me, so geared up I was ready to go down fighting (if I had to, though obviously this was not my preference). I’d even shot Manny, who was a dufus and a pathologically mean one and those two things didn’t go well together, but I still didn’t want to shoot him (or anyone).

I was not prepared for whatever the hell was currently happening.

Therefore I answered, “Uh…”

“Do I need to call a physician?” he asked.

I knew the answer to that. It might have been years and that pistol whip hurt like a mother but this was tame in comparison to what Pol could do to me.

“No, thanks,” I answered then stupidly got chatty. “I’m good. I’ve had way worse. Thanks to uh…you, he didn’t get the chance to get started so I’ll be all right.”

This was the wrong thing to say and I knew it instantly.

His adoring look fled. His jade green eyes got hot, his strong jaw went hard and a muscle ticked straight up that jaw into his cheek.

Oh boy.

There it was. That was the Pol I knew and I shrank back into the pillow as my body prepared to flee.

He saw it and I was guessing, like Pol, he didn’t miss much. Or, with the shine of intelligence that Pol did not have emanating from his eyes, not exactly like Pol, perhaps he didn’t miss anything.

“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.