Broken Dove (Fantasyland #4)(8)

I was thinking that was good and bad. The other Pol felt deep to extremes and his extremes were no good.

But the Pol I knew had no problems showing it. It was me who had a problem with the way he showed it.

This was a lot to take in but I was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. Either due to the blow to the face or my adrenaline crashing, suddenly I was fading.

Valentine saw it and I felt the wineglass sliding out of my hand.

I blinked up at her, drowsiness coming on so quickly it wasn’t right and I knew it was no adrenaline crash.

My eyes dropped to the wineglass.

“Settle, ma chérie,” she murmured, pressing on my shoulder so I had no choice but to slide back down the bed.

“You drugged me,” I accused.

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, she said, “Sleep is good. Tomorrow, you’ll be rested and you can better understand all that’s happening and acclimatize to your surroundings.”

“You drugged me,” I repeated, my words now slightly slurred, whatever she gave me working fast.

“It’s for the best.”

Someone drugging you without your knowledge was not for the best. Maybe their best, but not yours.

“You—”

“Sleep,” she whispered.

“But…”

I heard her sigh but I said no more because, against my will, I did as I was told and slept.

* * * * *

I regained consciousness in a sluggish way when my body was moved.

I was still mostly out of it but I could tell the person in bed with me wasn’t just joining me there. He was changing positions and taking me with him.

I didn’t know how we were before, but when he settled I was tucked close to his side, my cheek on his shoulder. As I struggled with consciousness, his fingers wrapped around my wrist and tugged my arm across his flat stomach.

I felt warm, soft skin over firm muscle pretty much everywhere.

Crap.

It was too bad I didn’t have it in me to protest. But I was so lethargic, I couldn’t move.

But I could speak.

“Pol?” I murmured and his arm holding me to him tightened as his hand at my wrist slid up my arm to curve around me.

“No,” he grunted forcefully.

“Apollo,” I whispered.

That got me a double arm squeeze.

“Yes,” he replied, gently this time. “Sleep, my dove.”

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.