“More important than that?” she queried.
“Absolutely,” he returned.
“But…I mean…” She shook her head as if clearing it. “Apollo, your mother, your father, growing up like that, what you must have felt, there really isn’t much that’s more important than that.”
“There is,” he retorted. “You.”
The instant his last word passed his lips, he watched her entire body sway back as her lips parted.
Then he watched her eyes get bright.
And at that, he was done.
So he inquired, “Now, will you come to me or will I be going to you?”
She again didn’t answer him.
She whispered, “I should have shared.”
“What?” he asked.
She held his eyes, hers still bright, and repeated, “I should have shared.”
“Poppy—”
She interrupted him to explain. “I should have shared that what that woman said bothered me so much.”
“You should have,” he agreed gently.
“I’m not what she said I was,” she stated.
“No.” His agreement to that was far less gentle. “You aren’t.”
He watched her draw in a deep breath before she admitted, “I still don’t know what I am.”
“To that, what I must ask, my dove, is why you need to be anything but you?”
She blinked as if supremely perplexed by his comment.
“Sorry?”
“You are amusing. You are spirited. You are intelligent, loyal and brave. And you’ve led a life where lesser women, women such as your own mother, would long since have admitted defeat. But you never did. Can you not be content with all that is you, knowing there is so much of it, and enjoy what those around can offer you in return? Most specifically me, who simply wants you to leave the life you led behind, as well as the demons it left you with, and have one where I can make you happy.”
And again she did not answer.
She looked to the seat of the sofa.
But he saw the tear slide from her eye and glide down her cheek.
He felt the sight of that lone tear pierce his heart.
“Madeleine, please come to me,” he whispered and she turned her eyes back to him.
“You give me a lot,” she whispered back.
“I do. But that scale is not unbalanced.”
“I—”
“Maddie, please cease listening and hear me. I shared earlier the gifts you’ve bestowed on me, these being the reasons why I love you. And even after sharing those, you gifted me with something I treasure above all, your love. I don’t know how to guide you into seeing that there is nothing you must do or be or give for others to understand irrevocably having you in our lives is worthwhile. Again, specifically, me for I have you in ways others don’t. I have your heart.”
“Is that enough?” she asked, and at her question, Apollo fought back the searing sensation that burned through his chest.
And that sensation made his tone harsh when he declared, “Would that I had the time to find the other me, to locate your father, to take my time in ways they would most assuredly not enjoy to communicate precisely how I feel that they have given you what they gave you that you’d ever think to utter such a question.”
She stared at him.
Then she said, “I take it that’s enough.”
“It bloody is,” he bit out.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Now, you have one second to come to me. If you don’t—”
He didn’t finish.
She took a step to him.
Then she took another.
That was the last simple step she took.
The rest of the way, she ran.
His body rocked back when hers hit his. But when it did, he locked his arms around her, hers curved around his shoulders and she shoved her face in his neck.
“I was rather hoping once you ceased standing across the bloody room and came to where you belonged, you’d press your mouth somewhere else,” he muttered irritably.
Her body shook in his arms for several seconds before her laughter became audible.
Still laughing, she pulled her face out of his neck, rolled up on her toes and pressed her closed lips hard against his.
That was better.
It didn’t remain that way for she almost instantly pulled away.
“Does that work?” she asked, her eyes still bright with unshed tears but those tears were going nowhere. He knew this because behind the wet was the light of amusement.
He missed that light.
And he was immensely pleased to have it back.
“Barely,” he drawled in answer.
The amusement in her eyes flared then slowly died but only so the skin around her mouth could soften as her eyes roamed his face.
They found his and his breath stuck in his throat at what he saw as she whispered, “So this is what it feels like not to be broken.”
Bloody hell.
His arms around her convulsed but for the life of him, he couldn’t get his mouth to move in answer.
She didn’t need it.
She had something else to say.
And that was, “Love you, Lo.”
Suddenly, Apollo was done talking.
So he stopped them doing it.
But how he did that, he used his mouth.
And in return, his Maddie used hers.
* * * * *
The room dark, the weight of Maddie’s soft warm na**d body resting on him, her knees high at his sides, her forehead in his throat, her fingers trailing lazily along his shoulder, when he thought she was near sleep and was looking forward to the same with his dove held close, he felt her move.
No.
He felt her shake.
“Madeleine?”
She started shaking more.
His arms, already around her, tightened as he lifted his head in an attempt to peer at her through the dark. This attempt failed. All he could see were the poppy highlights in her auburn hair sparkling in the firelight.
“Maddie,” he said more sharply.
She tilted her head and shoved her face in the side of his neck, her body shaking harder.
He thought she was weeping and could not imagine why when a delicate snort filled the room and she shook even harder.
That snort was not from weeping.
It was from laughing.
He rolled her to her back, mostly covering her, and lifted his head to look down at her just as her laughter became audible.
She clutched at him as it did, giggling uncontrollably.
“What is funny?” he demanded to know.
She kept laughing, and also shaking, and further snorting, but she didn’t speak
“Madeleine,”—he gave her a squeeze—“what is funny?”