Shit!
Apollo had spoken to Achilles or he’d also been in a dark mood and Achilles, not a dim bulb by a long shot, had read it.
“I still need to do it,” I declared with more bravado than bravery.
He held my eyes an excruciatingly long moment before he nodded. “Then he’s in his room. Do you know where that is?”
I had not officially been shown there but during my tour I’d hit the master’s bedchamber. I knew it was that because it was mammoth, richly appointed (and since everything else was seriously appointed, that room being richly appointed was saying something) and awesome.
It also smelled like his cologne and, well, him.
“I do,” I told Achilles.
“Then go,” he urged.
I smiled a shaky smile and took off toward the wide, carved wooden staircase.
I went as fast as I could go because with every step I was losing the nerve to take the next one.
What if he was still pissed and was an ass**le again?
What if in the last four days he’d figured out I wasn’t worth it?
What if I got there and screwed everything up, said something stupid and damaged what was already broken to the point it couldn’t be repaired?
These thoughts assailed me as I made it to his rooms and saw the door open.
Without knocking, I ran in.
His rooms were decorated in cream, jade and browns, mostly the latter two. He also had a small anteroom that I couldn’t imagine he used much mostly because it contained nothing but a handsome round table with a carved support that had four clawed feet. This sat next to a coffee-brown leather chaise lounge overhung with a floor lamp.
I moved through, turned right to face where his massive bedroom was and stopped dead.
Apollo was prowling through the room, swinging his cloak over his shoulder, his head down so he could watch his hand catch the strap under his arm. His tall, powerful body in motion, that cloak flying out behind him, his thick chocolate brown wool turtleneck and matching breeches, I forgot what a commanding presence he had and my mouth went dry.
His head came up and he stopped too.
That was when my heart stopped.
Because without a flash, not even a flicker, he gave me nothing. His eyes settled on me and they were blank, his beautiful face carved from stone.
There was no warmth. There was also no anger. Definitely no tenderness.
There was nothing.
I was too late.
“Now is not a good time, Madeleine,” he stated, holding my eyes as he started walking again, buckling his cloak on his chest. “I’m away on an important errand and need to leave immediately.”
He passed me and I turned with him at the same time I forced my lips to move.
“What I have to say is important,” I told him.
He again stopped and turned to me. “Then say it. And quickly.”
It was a lot less attractive, him being bossy and arrogant when he was looking at me with his beautiful eyes void of emotion.
No. Not attractive.