Part 14 (2/2)

Apollo moved by him and threw open the door.

He turned in it and leveled his gaze on his friend.

”Think on this,” he ordered.

”I have, for four months,” Derrik replied.

”Then think longer,” Apollo ground out, slammed the door and stormed down the hall.

He paced the secluded room he'd demanded for this meeting, its fire warm in the grate, but Apollo didn't feel warm.

I'm sorry.

He heard her whispered words, her voice had been sleepy but those words were heartfelt.

And he felt her soft body burrowing into his.

I'm sorry.

He stopped pacing and closed his eyes.

But when he did, he saw her eyes, scared, confused and holding pain, peering deep into his.

You're not a hallucination.

He opened his eyes and muttered to himself, ”Where the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l is she?”

He was at The Swan.

He'd managed to drive Torment, his roan, through the snow and into the town with his mind consumed with finding reasons not to murder his closest friend.

But he'd been at the inn for twenty minutes, waiting for her, and thus he was having difficulty controlling his thoughts.

Thoughts he'd kept tightly leashed since that morning he slid away from her somnolent body and understood he'd made a colossal mistake.

Not saving her from her husband, that was not his mistake. But he could have arranged that without seeing her.

No, his mistake was seeing her.

Touching her.

Hearing her.

Smelling her.

Understanding instantly that she was not his Ilsa.

But the Ilsa she was was dangerous.

Something he now knew categorically considering his conversation with Derrik.

Therefore, when he should have been planning for an attack, he was making other plans.

And those plans included him negotiating the purchase of a chalet, a large one, a luxurious one, but one miles away from any of his estates.

And he'd already opened an account and deposited enough money in it that she could live and do so with every desire met but without her ever having the need to come to him and ask for a thing.

And live far away and well taken care of she would do, after they dealt with whatever was coming.

Unfortunately, until that time, for her safety she needed to be at Karsvall, with his men and with the witch who was watching over all of them.

And also with his children.

He'd explained all about Ilsa carefully to Christophe and elan, and watched closely after he did so.

His daughter had been a year and a half when her mother had died. She was now six. She didn't remember her mother, though she was excited about meeting Ilsa, as she was excited about everything under the sun.

It didn't take much with his elan. The flight of a sparrow could brighten her day.

Where she got that, he had no idea. It wasn't from him.

It also wasn't from her mother.

His Ilsa was quick to smile, droll with words, and so G.o.ds d.a.m.ned smart, it was, at times, alarming.

But she was not a dreamer. She did not antic.i.p.ate excitement around every corner. She did not rush out to meet life, like her daughter.

Christophe, on the other hand, had been four when Ilsa was lost to him. He was now eight, almost nine.

He remembered her. Those memories were elusive due to his age but he'd carried a locket with his mother's tiny portrait in it since he'd found it on Apollo's dresser when he was five.

He was never without it.

He was also not excited to meet Ilsa. He tried to hide it from his father and sister.

But he failed.

This concerned Apollo but he intended to have a word with Achilles about it.

Achilles would keep an eye on things.

On this thought, the door opened and Ilsa moved into the room.

Apollo clenched his teeth and braced inwardly at the sight of her.

She looked exactly like his wife. She sounded like her. She even smelled like her.

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