And Pol, f**king, f**king Pol always got the best of me.
In order to focus on not getting some part of my arm broken, I had to twist my body with it and my fingers let loose around the grip of the gun.
Pol let me go, caught the gun and clearly flipped it to hold it by the barrel because the next thing I knew, the butt was coming down hard on the flesh under my cheekbone.
Freaking ouch.
I fell to one hand at my side, the other one instinctively going up to my cheekbone as agony radiated through my cheek and eye, causing black spots to form in my vision.
Shit, I’d forgotten.
If you told me I’d ever forget how this felt, I wouldn’t believe you.
But three years without it, I’d forgotten how f**king much it hurt.
New thing, though, even though the spots were still flickering behind my eyes, the rest of my vision was turning an eerie, emerald green.
Weird and probably not good.
“You shot Manny. Jesus, Ilsa, you stupid cunt,” Pol barked from close and as usual, he didn’t hesitate.
I felt his foot connect with my ribs so hard, it lifted me straight up and turned me so my back slammed against the wall.
I came down hard on my side just in time to hear a terrifying masculine roar.
Not a shout.
Not a bellow.
An animalistic (but still human) roar of unadulterated rage.
At first, I thought it was coming from Pol and I stiffened in order to brace for the next blow. But when it didn’t come, as I lifted my eyes, that eerie green light was so bright it was illuminating the room so I could now see everything clearly.
Still, I blinked and shoved up to my forearm, the pain in my face and ribs completely forgotten because I was pretty certain as clear as things were in that strange light, I wasn’t seeing correctly.
This was because I was seeing the impossible.
And the impossible was that there were two Pols.
One was the Pol I was used to. Tall. Powerfully built. Fit. Hair well-groomed. Tailored slacks and shirt making him look classy and hot (if you didn’t know what an ass**le he was, that was).
The other was a different Pol.
Still tall and powerfully built, he was, however, more fit. Clearly more fit. Like, by a lot. He made the other Pol look like Pol Lite. This new Pol was a Pol Powerhouse.
His dark hair was also not well-groomed but in need of a cut and it looked like he just got out of bed. And he wasn’t wearing classy, tailored clothes. He wasn’t even wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
I blinked again.
Good God, he was wearing what looked like breeches, tall boots that went up to his knees, a lace-up-the-collar shirt, and a freaking cape of all things.
Yes. A cape!
Apparently, being pistol whipped made you hallucinate. But there it was. The vision before me was Pol in a dude-from-a-romance-novel-cover outfit hammering the normal Pol with his fists, the mighty, nauseating thud of flesh against flesh thumping through the room.
Holy cow.
The Pol I knew was down on a knee. But he suddenly twisted away from the romance-novel-cover Pol and began to lift his hand that was still carrying my gun.