Broken Dove
Page 3
I was about to take my eyes away from the two Pols to look where the woman’s voice was coming from but didn’t when I heard what I could swear was the hiss of steel.
Yep. I was right. It was the hiss of steel. I knew this because the romance-novel-cover Pol was now wielding a sword.
A freaking sword!
What the hell!
Then I pressed myself back into the wall when, with a practiced, economical, cool-as-shit (if it wasn’t scary-as-all-get-out and seriously gross besides) slice going around almost in a full circle, the romance-novel-cover Pol cut off the regular Pol’s hand.
Yes.
Cut off his hand!
I made a noise in my throat as I swallowed hard against the vomit that surged up and Pol emitted a violent rumble of fury and pain, clutching his still-there hand to his now stumped wrist.
Okay. I wasn’t hallucinating.
I was unconscious and having a very sick disgusting dream.
Still, even knowing this, I didn’t wake up which I really wished I would.
But no. The dream continued and the romance-novel-cover Pol with his big sword came around for another pass. I closed my eyes and shrunk back further, pressing into the wall behind me like I wanted it to absorb me because it looked like he intended to cut Pol’s head off.
I heard a thud of a body hitting floor (though not a second thud which would indicate a head hitting the floor) and I again swallowed bile and terror as police sirens sounded in the distance.
I didn’t know if this was good or bad. I could explain my need for a gun and I’d do my time if a jury of my peers thought I deserved it.
I couldn’t explain a beheading.
“We must leave tout de suite.” The woman said and she didn’t sound bored anymore. She didn’t sound freaked like I was (in a big f**king way). But there was a hint of urgency to her voice.
I opened my eyes just in time to be lifted up in romance-novel-cover Pol’s arms.
Uh-oh.
This wasn’t what unconscious felt like. I’d been that way often in my life and not just due to sleeping. I knew what it felt like. And this was not it.
His arms around my middle back and behind my knees caged me iron tight to his broad chest as he peered down at me, straightened and turned, walking to the middle of the room and stopping.
I would have protested. I should have protested.
I didn’t protest.
This was because I was looking in Pol’s eyes.
But this was not Pol.
I’d seen a myriad of looks in Pol’s eyes. Love. Hate. Fury. Annoyance. Passion. Humor. I could go on (and on).
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.
Yep. I was right. It was the hiss of steel. I knew this because the romance-novel-cover Pol was now wielding a sword.
A freaking sword!
What the hell!
Then I pressed myself back into the wall when, with a practiced, economical, cool-as-shit (if it wasn’t scary-as-all-get-out and seriously gross besides) slice going around almost in a full circle, the romance-novel-cover Pol cut off the regular Pol’s hand.
Yes.
Cut off his hand!
I made a noise in my throat as I swallowed hard against the vomit that surged up and Pol emitted a violent rumble of fury and pain, clutching his still-there hand to his now stumped wrist.
Okay. I wasn’t hallucinating.
I was unconscious and having a very sick disgusting dream.
Still, even knowing this, I didn’t wake up which I really wished I would.
But no. The dream continued and the romance-novel-cover Pol with his big sword came around for another pass. I closed my eyes and shrunk back further, pressing into the wall behind me like I wanted it to absorb me because it looked like he intended to cut Pol’s head off.
I heard a thud of a body hitting floor (though not a second thud which would indicate a head hitting the floor) and I again swallowed bile and terror as police sirens sounded in the distance.
I didn’t know if this was good or bad. I could explain my need for a gun and I’d do my time if a jury of my peers thought I deserved it.
I couldn’t explain a beheading.
“We must leave tout de suite.” The woman said and she didn’t sound bored anymore. She didn’t sound freaked like I was (in a big f**king way). But there was a hint of urgency to her voice.
I opened my eyes just in time to be lifted up in romance-novel-cover Pol’s arms.
Uh-oh.
This wasn’t what unconscious felt like. I’d been that way often in my life and not just due to sleeping. I knew what it felt like. And this was not it.
His arms around my middle back and behind my knees caged me iron tight to his broad chest as he peered down at me, straightened and turned, walking to the middle of the room and stopping.
I would have protested. I should have protested.
I didn’t protest.
This was because I was looking in Pol’s eyes.
But this was not Pol.
I’d seen a myriad of looks in Pol’s eyes. Love. Hate. Fury. Annoyance. Passion. Humor. I could go on (and on).
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.
