However, it was not lost on him that there was often more that he wanted, desires he introduced to his marriage bed that were not spurned, but they were gently denied.

He had more than once considered suggesting adela tea to Ilsa when she was alive. In the end it was only time, and the fact that he’d run out of it, that disallowed that discussion.

With only two sessions, Madeleine had gone further with him than the years he’d had with Ilsa.

The first time—when she’d taken his shaft so deep he could feel the tip graze the back of her throat and when she’d taken his thumb in her arse, moaning and bucking into it violently—he could attribute to the adela tea.

Last night, no.

Last night, with no tea, she’d given herself with equal abandon. He had gone to her wrought with emotion for all she’d done, burning with need and taken her in the throes of it.

But she was not frightened or repulsed. She met his passion and even bested it.

And during their play, he did not need to be cautious, to curb his desires, to do or be anything but himself and take what he wished with Maddie giving it to him.

Gladly.

He was very aware that as they became attuned to each other, learned about each other, got used to each other, he would make comparisons between what he was building with Madeleine and what he had had with Ilsa. This would happen even if she did not look like Ilsa.

What he would not have imagined, after the loss he suffered when he lost Ilsa, was that Madeleine, it would seem, in a very short time was beginning to surpass all the beauty, intelligence and strength that had been his wife.

Fifteen years ago, his eyes fell on Ilsa, he quickly became smitten and not long after fell deeply in love.

With Madeleine, it was something else.

He could not turn his mind from her. Her smiles felt like gifts. Her laughter, a triumph. Every “honey” a treasure. Every “baby” sent a pulse through his cock.

He was not smitten.

He was growing consumed.

And he was troubled by it.

Not that it was happening. Not that some part of him felt this swift response to Madeleine was a betrayal of Ilsa.

No, because if his world could turn dark at the loss of Ilsa and these feelings he had for Madeleine grew, what would become of him if he lost her?

The horse reached the clearing of the trees and Apollo’s attention was taken away from Maddie when he saw Achilles and Draven on the front steps of Karsvall, a horse at the foot, Derrik packing it.

All that needed to be done last night was done with the swiftness it required. Therefore, he had little time to speak to any of his men as he did it, other than to give orders. And he’d gone directly to Maddie, so there was no time after it was done.

Regardless, he would not have been able to talk to Derrik for, after they extracted the information from the assassin, Derrik had absented himself completely.

At the time, Apollo had neither the time nor the desire to search him out and share gratitude for his efforts at keeping Christophe, Élan and Karsvall safe.

Now, he would take that time and hope what had elapsed since he’d last seen his friend had helped to cool his ire.

He kicked his horse to a trot and reined in when he was close to Derrik’s mount, seeing it packed for a journey.

Apollo home, clearly Derrik was returning to the Lazarus seat.

Perhaps his ire had not cooled.

His eyes slid through Achilles and Draven.

Draven looked annoyed. Achilles looked thoughtful. This told him nothing.

Although Draven was not often annoyed, it was known he could get that way on occasion.

Achilles was much like any Ulfr. In most cases, he kept his emotions to himself. Achilles, however, was a master of this.

Apollo dismounted and approached the men. They all watched but only Derrik did so with cold eyes.

“Morning, Lo,” Achilles called.

Apollo raised a hand to Achilles and Draven and turned his attention to Derrik when he stopped three feet from him.

“You journey to Lazarus?” he asked quietly.

“I journey to Specter Isle,” Derrik announced, voice not quiet but still cold, his words sparking Apollo’s ire.

He narrowed his eyes on Derrik, his voice no longer quiet but impatient when he returned, “Don’t be foolish.”

Specter Isle, they’d learned last night, if the conspirator was to be believed, was where Minerva, Baldur, and the two Valearian witches they were conspiring with, Edith and Helda, were hiding.

Seeing Derrik’s jaw set, Apollo kept speaking.

“Last night, I spent half the night writing missives to—”

“And the second half you spent f**king Maddie,” Derrik interrupted him to bite out.

Apollo clenched his teeth.

He didn’t fully understand every word but he didn’t need to in order to understand his meaning.

This was proved when Draven growled, “Careful, Rik.”

Derrik didn’t tear his eyes from Apollo and he knew him well, so he read him.

This made him tip his head to the side in mock curiosity. “Has she not shared that with you? Her world’s word of f**k? It has many uses, brother. When she has a few ales, a few glasses of wine, her tongue loosens.” He threw out an arm to indicate Achilles and Draven. “She shared with all of us the curse words of the other world. That was my particular favorite.”

“Fascinating,” Apollo returned, his word dry.

“Though, I would guess, if you got a few ales in her, with her tongue loose, you’d find other uses for it.”

At that, Apollo growled, Draven did it again, and both of them moved.

Achilles moved as well, but he could only stop Draven.

He didn’t stop Apollo and thus Apollo’s fist connected powerfully with Derrik’s jaw. With satisfaction, he saw his friend’s head flash to the side, blood spraying from his mouth into the snow. After this, Derrik instantly took a step back but lifted his fists, body loose.

Ready.

Apollo didn’t lift his fists. Eyes locked to Derrik, he didn’t give him even that. His friend knew from years of sparring for sport who would be bested in the end. And it would not be Apollo.

Achilles moved between them, arms lifted and he clipped, “Think, brothers.”

He would not think.

He would warn.

“One more word from your mouth like that about Madeleine, you’ll be picking your teeth from the snow.”

“By the gods, you speak of Maddie,” Draven put in angrily. “One more word like that and half the men will be sending your teeth into the snow.”

Derrik dropped his fists and crossed his arms on his chest but said nothing. Through these exchanges, he didn’t take his eyes from Apollo.