Broken Dove (Fantasyland #4)(61)

“She was Ilsa’s. They were born within a week of her dying.”

Shit.

Well, there you go. The reason for their names.

I decided not to reply.

“Surprisingly,” he carried on. “They grew healthy and strong. A miracle. One built on tragedy but one nonetheless.”

“Yes, a miracle,” I murmured, reaching for my own wineglass and looking away when I took a sip.

“We must speak of them.”

At his words, I looked back to him, not understanding. “Sorry?”

“They existed. We can’t pretend they did not. Burying memories, treasured or detested, is unhealthy,” he explained.

He was talking of Ilsa and Pol and he was doing it matter-of-factly.

He was also right, of course.

I still wasn’t fired up to share about Pol during our kind of first date.

Apollo leaned into me and he said softly, “Reliving unhappy memories is always unpleasant, Maddie. I’m simply saying that it’s likely I’ll refer to her because she was once in my life and to know me, you must know of my life. She’s also the mother of my children and will always be a part of my life in some way because of that.” His voice dropped even softer and his eyes held mine, his intense but warm, when he went on. “And last, I loved her deeply, so she simply always will be a part of me.”

I nodded as this was true, but he wasn’t done.

“I’m also saying if you feel the need to release your memories, unhappy or otherwise, and need someone to tell them to, and in the case of the unhappy ones, if you need someone to help take them from you, I’m here.”

God, that was sweet.

Seriously, could this guy get better?

“Thanks,” I whispered, though I added, “But can it not be now?”

“Absolutely, it can not be now. It can be never. It’s your decision whether you wish to share…or not.”

Yep.

This guy could get better.

And then he got even better and he did that by sitting back and changing the subject, which, at that point, was exactly what I needed.

“I have yet to tell you of Valentine’s visits.”

I nodded, and since I wanted to know about that, I put my elbows to the table and leaned into them, placing my chin in my palms and curling my fingers up my cheeks.

When I did, his eyes melted to tender and my belly melted at the view.

But what he said didn’t make me feel warm and squishy.

“I must ask, dove, that if she visits you, you tell me. This is again your choice, but it is my preference to know if she meddles.”

That surprised me. “Is she not a nice person?”

“I am not unskilled in reading people. This witch, however, I cannot say. She seems to have a rather robust protective bent to you. Yet she left you the tea without you understanding its potency or effects. It led to us sharing something beautiful, but this is not done. Indeed, it’s frowned upon and there have even been men and women brought up on charges when they’ve used it on those who were unsuspecting.”

“It’s used as a date rape drug,” I deduced quietly.

“Explain this,” he ordered.

I lifted my chin from my palms and did just that.

“In my world, men and women go on dates before marriage. It’s a kind of wooing, I guess. Courtship. A getting to know each other period. Sometimes, this leads to a union, marriage or the like. Sometimes, it doesn’t work out and you move on. Also in my world, there are drugs that are used to make women—they’re mostly used on women—unconscious or unable to defend themselves so the men they’re dating can take advantage. They’re called date rape drugs because, when it all boils down, even if there’s no violence or struggle, that’s only because the woman has been incapacitated. So it’s still rape. Using adela tea like that is not the same, but it kind of is.”

He nodded once, sharply, and concurred, “It is.”

I sat back, reached for my wineglass and took a sip, replacing it to the table, mumbling, “So I guess that’s the second time she drugged me without my knowledge.”

“Your first night in our world,” he stated and I looked at him again.

“Yes.”

He looked away but did it appearing annoyed and I’d know why when he murmured, “I’d wondered why you slipped into sleep so easily after your trauma.”

“That was why,” I affirmed.

He looked back to me. “This, poppy, is precisely why I wish for you to inform me if she comes to you. In word and deed she seems to have your best interests at heart. But it all depends on the person and their actions if their best interests are also yours, no?”

He was so right.

I nodded my agreement.

He again leaned toward me and gentled his tone when he requested, “And please, from now on, don’t touch, accept or consume anything unless you’re certain it was provided to you by me. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” I said softly.

His lips curved up and he whispered, “Thank you, poppy.”

Okay.

Totally.

This guy kept getting so much better I was beginning to wonder if he was even real.

“We must discuss something else sensitive before our food is served so it can have both our attention and then we can go on to enjoy the evening unhindered by such discourse.”