“Okay, don’t go all freaky on me again. It’s cool. I’m good. I’ll relax.” I forced myself to relax (slightly) and pointed it out by indicating myself with a sweep of the hand. “See. Relaxed. I’m chilling. It’s all good. I’m fine.”
“You lie,” he said softly. “You lie with very strange words, but you still lie.”
God!
I needed to get myself together. Although he said that softly, my guess would be he didn’t like liars (because no one liked liars) and I needed to keep him calm, not rile him up.
“I—” I started to try and cover my lie but he cut me off.
“You don’t know where you are or who I am. You’ve been kicked and sustained a blow to your face. And you’ve witnessed—”
I closed my eyes tight and requested, “Please, let’s not do a blow by blow.”
His fingers gave my neck a squeeze and I opened my eyes. “I needed to disarm him, Ilsa,” he explained, his voice still soft.
“By cutting off his hand?” I asked and his brows drew together.
It was a scary look.
Uh-oh.
“You concern yourself with his welfare?” he asked back.
“I actually don’t care what happens to Pol. I just don’t want to see it happen. And that was some sick shit, but cutting off his head—”
He interrupted me, his brows still drawn, his look no less scary. “I did not take his head.”
He didn’t?
Well, I guessed that was why I didn’t hear a head hit the floor.
I thought on this a nanosecond and decided to take it as good news.
“And if he gets attention for his wound and it’s cauterized, he’ll not lose his life due to losing his hand,” the new Pol went on.
I decided to take that as good news too simply because I was a human being and it was required of me.
The new Pol then finished, “I hit him on the side of his head with the flat of my saber. He lost consciousness, but not his life.”
Well, there you go.
“Okeydokey,” I replied, his eyes lit and his mouth quirked.
Oh boy.
That look wasn’t scary. It was something else altogether.
“Could I interrupt at this juncture, chéri, and suggest you get a cool compress, ice if it’s available, raw meat if it’s not?” the polished female voice came at us and I was glad of it because new Pol lifted a few inches away and turned his head to peer into the shadows.
I looked beyond him and saw, through not very good lighting, a willowy redhead in a fabulous green dress and way more fabulous green slingback platform pumps, top to toe as slick and urbane as her voice would lead you to believe.
“Her cheek is swelling. It may not be too late for the ice to contain some of it,” she continued and the new Pol was up in a flash.
“I’ll see to this immediately,” he stated, moving swiftly, his cape swinging out dramatically behind him (which unusually, but awesomely, was set at a slant along his back—over one shoulder, under the other) and then it swung again when he stopped and turned back to me. “Rest. I will return shortly,” he ordered then he looked at the redhead and kept at it. “See to her until I return.”
After issuing his commands, he disappeared into the shadows and I heard a door open and close.
My eyes shifted to the woman.