Broken Dove Read online

  Broken Dove

  Kristen Ashley

  Discover other titles by Kristen Ashley:

  Rock Chick Series:

  Rock Chick

  Rock Chick Rescue

  Rock Chick Redemption

  Rock Chick Renegade

  Rock Chick Revenge

  Rock Chick Reckoning

  Rock Chick Regret

  Rock Chick Revolution

  The ‘Burg Series:

  For You

  At Peace

  Golden Trail

  Games of the Heart

  The Chaos Series:

  Own the Wind

  Fire Inside

  The Colorado Mountain Series:

  The Gamble

  Sweet Dreams

  Lady Luck

  Breathe

  Jagged

  Dream Man Series:

  Mystery Man

  Wild Man

  Law Man

  Motorcycle Man

  The Fantasyland Series:

  Wildest Dreams

  The Golden Dynasty

  Fantastical

  The Three Series:

  Until the Sun Falls from the Sky

  With Everything I Am

  The Unfinished Hero Series:

  Knight

  Creed

  Raid

  Other Titles by Kristen Ashley:

  Fairytale Come Alive

  Heaven and Hell

  Lacybourne Manor

  Lucky Stars

  Mathilda, SuperWitch

  Penmort Castle

  Play It Safe

  Sommersgate House

  Three Wishes

  www.kristenashley.net

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Kristen Ashley

  First ebook edition: December 2013

  *****

  Dedication

  Every girl’s gotta have her girl that no matter what time passes,

  No matter the distance,

  When they are again together, all that fades away.

  And every girl’s gotta have the girl who gives her peace.

  Calm. Contentment.

  But likes her fantasy.

  That girl for me is Elizabeth “Bethy” Bullard.

  So this book is for her.

  *****

  Prologue

  Not His Plans

  Apollo Ulfr saw the dancing lights against his closed eyelids before he felt the presence in the room.

  He rolled out of the bed, grabbing the knife from underneath his pillow as he did so. Crouching by the bed, scanning the room even as his eyes became accustomed to the dark, suddenly he felt it and knew it was her.

  The witch.

  Valentine Rousseau.

  Annoyed, seeing as it was the dead of night, he was naked, had not long before sent the Beniessienne whore to her own bed and he’d already told the witch his plans (and these were not the plans he’d shared with her, hence the whore who had left), and last, he was in Fleuridia to collect his children from boarding school so he could put them in a safe place before darkness settled on the land, he straightened, doing so speaking.

  “Witch, I told you the time and place you were to bring her to me and this is not—”

  She interrupted him, her voice, as usual, wry but there was an underlying urgency to it that made his skin prickle.

  “If you want to meet the Ilsa of my world, I suggest you change your plans.”

  Through the dark, Apollo narrowed his eyes on her slim shadow.

  “And this means…?” he prompted when she said no more.

  “This means, the Apollo of my world has found her.”

  When last they spoke, she’d explained what that meant.

  The Apollo Ulfr of the other world, his twin, was not a good man.

  And he’d harmed Ilsa. Because of this, she was evading him.

  Now his twin had found her.

  Gods damn it. He’d waited bloody years to have his wife back. He wasn’t going to let the other bloody him in a parallel universe take her away.

  Without delay, Apollo bent to collect his clothes from the floor, commanding, “You’ll take me to her.”

  “Is that a question?” she asked in reply.

  Yanking up his breeches, he cut his gaze to her shadow. “No, it’s bloody not.”

  Thankfully, the maddening witch, who could be sly and perverse, instantly lifted her elegant hands with her long, slim fingers tipped in scarlet-painted nails and he saw the green mist start to light the room.

  “Bring your weapons,” she warned.

  Bloody hell.

  Ilsa.

  “Of course,” he murmured, having yanked on his shirt, he pulled on his boots and moved quickly to the chair where he’d thrown his cape and saber.

  “All of them, Apollo,” she went on.

  Bloody hell.

  He didn’t respond.

  He swung his cape around, quickly buckling it on its slant across his chest. He did the same with the scabbard that held his saber. He donned his knife belt, shoved his blade into the sheath and moved to the wardrobe. Bending low, he pulled the knives out of the box at the bottom and shoved them in his boots, one on each side.

  The green mist had encompassed the room and he and the witch were both fading by the time he moved to her.

  Although he didn’t fall, he felt the ground give way beneath his feet and all faded to black.

  When he felt solid beneath him again and their environs came into sharp focus, at what Apollo saw, his blood coursed scalding through his veins, he opened his mouth, and he roared.

  Chapter One

  Tenderness and Pain

  Five minutes earlier…

  I ran up the steps as fast as I could, one of my hands carrying my keys (always ready, always), the other hand in my purse, digging into the side pocket where I kept my phone.

  The asshole had found me.

  Three years on the run and he’d found me.

  Damn it!

  Oh well. Fuck it. I’d planned for this.

  It was go time.

  I made it to the shabby landing where my apartment was located and sprinted down the hall, my breath coming fast, my heart beating hard, my skin cold. But my head was clear.

  I’d been preparing for this.

  He wasn’t going to get me again.

  Not again.

  Quickly, I shoved my key into the lock and turned. Repeat with the deadbolt. I opened the door, dashed inside and slammed it shut.

  It was a crap door. But not crap locks since I’d sweet-talked my creepy, ogling landlord with a lot of batting of lashes and broken promises to give me a significant upgrade.

  Now I was counting on those good locks to give me time.

  My apartment was not in a great area of town, as most of them weren’t these last three years. Cheap and not my style.

  I liked nice things. I was a label whore. I wanted a good life.

  It was a flaw in my nature that cost me a lot.

  Too much.

  In other words, everything.

  Also, my apartments were chosen so the landlords wouldn’t blink when I jumped the lease seeing as they probably lost tenants regularly for a variety of shitty life reasons that the people who we
re forced to live in these shitty places always had.

  Then again, this apartment was rented like all my apartments were, on a fake ID. So even if a landlord wanted to find me after I jumped the lease three, six, nine months early, he wouldn’t know who to look for.

  I turned the lock, threw the deadbolt home and engaged the chain.

  Then I ran to my bedroom. Having pulled out my phone, my thumb moved over the screen to hit a contact I had programmed in as A-ICE so it was top of the heap.

  I made it to my bedroom as I hit go on the phone.

  Three years ago, I’d never phone the police. Pol had taught me not to do that.

  For the three years I’d been on the run, I didn’t get them involved either since I’d learned that lesson well.

  Now, I’d need them to clean up the mess (maybe).

  I made it to the safe in my closet before I heard, “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

  “My husband—” I started, jabbing the first two digits of the code into the keypad on the safe but hitting the third wrong when I jumped because I heard a loud thump on my front door.

  I shook my head and closed my eyes hard.

  Focus, Ilsa. Focus. I told myself, opening my eyes and clearing the code on the safe.

  “Ma’am?” the 911 operator called. “Your emergency?”

  “My husband found me,” I told her, hitting the correct digits and the release button and gratefully hearing the whirs of the door opening on the safe. “His name is Pol Ulfr. Apollo Ulfr. He’s a drug dealer in Portland, Oregon. He’s abusive and I’ve been running from him for three years. Now he’s caught me. I’m in apartment 3D at twenty-six, sixty-one Rampart Street.”

  I heard another thud on the door.

  Therefore I added, “And he’s right outside my door.”

  I reached into the safe and wrapped my hand around the grip as I kept speaking.

  “I’ve got a gun. You need to send someone soon. If he gets to me first, I’ll use it.”

  “Ma’am, do not arm yourself. I’m dispatching officers immediately to your location,” the 911 operator told me but I ignored this.

  She didn’t know. She didn’t have a clue. And I hoped to God she never would.

  Instead of sharing that, I warned her, “He’ll have men. At least one. And trust me, badges and uniforms will not stop them from getting what they want.”

  And they wanted me.

  Or at least Pol did.

  But with the loyalty his men showed him, they’d go down in a hail of gunfire before they’d give up doing whatever they had to do to get Pol what he wanted.

  “They’re en route now,” the operator continued. “So find a safe place and please—”

  Another thud on the door which included some splintering wood.

  They’d be through soon.

  Thus there was no safe place. Not in this apartment.

  Not anywhere.

  Unless I made it safe.

  I darted to a corner of the room and hunkered down, eyes aimed through the dark at the door, saying, “Gotta go now.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Bah-bye,” I whispered, hit end call, dropped my phone on the floor and shrugged my purse off.

  I then lifted the gun to point it at the door.

  Shit.

  The outside door crashed open.

  Shit!

  I checked to make certain the safety was off.

  It was off.

  Could I do this?

  I sucked in breath through my nose.

  I could do this.

  But only because I had to.

  I moved my finger to the trigger.

  I heard the thumping feet. Running. One man, not several.

  Pol wouldn’t be running. That wasn’t Pol’s style. He sauntered, he didn’t run. Not unless he was on a state-of-the art treadmill while making drug deals on his Bluetooth.

  Then again, he’d been deprived of his favorite toy for three years. He didn’t treat that toy nice, far from it. But it was still his favorite, he’d want it back and he got what he wanted.

  Always.

  I sucked in another breath, then whispered, “Not tonight.”

  A shadow came through the door.

  My throat closed and I froze.

  I’d planned for this. Damn it, I’d planned. I’d been psyching myself up for this exact moment for years.

  Why was he getting closer and I wasn’t pulling the stupid trigger?

  “Stop, I’ve got a gun!” I shouted my warning.

  He didn’t stop and was almost on me when my finger remembered my plans and squeezed.

  I jumped at the loud sound of the gunshot, heard a surprised, pained grunt and the shadow was reeling back.

  Oh God.

  I’d shot a man. Crap! I’d shot a man!

  God, how I hated Pol.

  But I saw now that man wasn’t Pol. I knew it because I could feel it and see it. Pol was taller than that staggering shadow, not as bulky.

  And he was right behind that shadow when it fell back.

  I knew this because I heard his hated but nevertheless deep, attractive voice that I so never wanted to hear again clip, “Jesus, what the fuck?”

  I wasn’t prepared for him to be so close.

  So I wasn’t prepared when his hand snaked out catching mine that held the gun at the wrist, twisting so hard the pain shot up my arm, shoulder and even my neck, making my ear tingle.

  I’d planned. I really had.

  But I’d also planned before.

  And Pol, fucking, fucking 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 fucking 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 asshole 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 ou
t 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.

  That was when I heard an attractive, cultured, insanely bored-sounding female say, “Apollo, chéri, the other you holds a deadly weapon.”

  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.