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Aleksey didn’t like asking himself this question. He punched the tiles in the shower instead. And that just added to his other hurts, both inside and out.
But if hehadthought that—just for a fleeting moment—he had also thoughtthis means something. Aboutus. And then he had realised he did not know whetherthiswas the pain the discovery was giving him, or the fact that Ben was attempting a relationship with someone else. Or both.
And puzzling through these utterly bewildering contradictions had so confused him that what had gone down in that cottage had passed him by, lost as he’d been to unfamiliar self-doubt. He’d stood like the shadow he was, observing, pondering.Benjamin Rider, for fuck’s sake. What does this mean?What is this?
For the first time in his life, Aleksey hadn’t had a fucking clue what to do about a situation. It’s what he’d always done: face a problem head on. Tackle it immediately without procrastination or self-doubt. But standing in that tiny sitting room, thinking had been like trying to grasp ice. The more he’d squeezed, the tighter he’d gripped, the more the concept had slid away, tantalizingly out of reach.
He hadn’t beenjealous. That intense emotion couldn’t have been jealousy. Obviously not. He didn’t do jealousy, and he didn’t care about Ben Rider. He only cared that no one else had him—like the toy soldier in his faded, knitted uniform. He hadn’t wanted to play with it—he just hadn’t wanted Nikolas to have it.
For a moment, Aleksey’s grip on the ice had become almost tangible, he had almost grasped the thought, the emotion, that was eluding him, but had then let it go deliberately. Ice grasped for too long burnt. Everyone knew that.
It was just another very successful tactic he’d used all his life—avoid thinking about what you don’t want to face. Sometimes, during the worst times of his life, enduring those hours of powerlessness and pain, he’d taken himself far away to better places. Sometimes, he’d swum through sun-warmed, translucent seas that he read about in his books. At other times, it was an endless golden meadow, and he was bareback upon his horse and they were so in tune that he was more the horse than the little boy upon its back.
It wasn’t often that Aleksey wished he were ten again.
So, after that initial, uncharacteristic outburst, he’d kept his own counsel.
A silent presence, just watching.
Well, it had been silent until he’d succumbed to a cigarette. Fuck appearances. Not the cigarette itself causing the noise, of course, but the flicking away of the glowing butt when the Iraqi was done and ready to leave.
Flicking it into a tray of paint thinner actually.
He remembered one shared glance with Usama when they had apparently, for once, been on exactly the same wavelength—as any two men might be noticing for the first time that the ground floor of the cottage was full of paint and turpentine—and then just noise.
He’d wondered what the strange smell had been on first going into the one-room-up, one-room-down cottage, but had been distracted, obviously, by the thought of the innocent being smothered to death above him.
Usama had been closer to the back door and had been blown clear. He’d been wearing a leather jacket, too, which had protected him somewhat. Aleksey’s cashmere overcoat had helped a bit, but most useful had been the dive he’d taken over the sink and through the kitchen window. Literally. No glass, just a hole. As he’d hit the ground in the garden, rolling to put out his burning coat, he’d actually thought,huh, that explains the odd light earlier: that was the carpenter who’s replacing the windows. Nice.
Of course, he had actuallyintendedto burn the cottage down. It’s what he’d gone there to do, after all: thenotfinding Ben Rider home...the inevitable and probably embarrassingly excessive disappointment of the Iraqi...the subsequent merest of hints from him that maybe sending amessagewould be ample...? Something small? Like, I don’t know, burn the fucking I’m-too-busy-renovating-my-new-house-to-meet-with-you place down. But burn it in acivilisedway had been his intent—perhaps a small out-of-control candle?
A wayward smoulder?
Now he had weeping blisters on his back, slightly less hair, and a pile of fuckingly expensive cashmere in a heap on the floor.
And a wholly innocent dead man.
And things that clearly needed to be pondered about Ben Rider.
For, of course, by the time he’d gotten back to Barton Combe and its welcome emptiness, he’d come to some very interesting conclusions as to why Benjamin Rider might have installed another man into his cottage and presumably his bed.
A man who apparently spent the night.
The man who was...living with…
A man who was in a…
A…
Benjamin Rider was in a fucking relationship with someone else.
BenjaminNo-HeartRider.
Yeah, some nicknames were very easy to think up. Ben Riderhadno heart. Ben Rider had no depths! These were the very reasons Aleksey had not allowed himself that glorious high dive into the beckoning green lagoons of Ben’s eyes. He had no intention of suffering a major concussion when he quickly hit that rock bottom. He was gliding quite happily through the shallow waters of Ben’s superb physicality and had no desire whatsoever to go deeper. No courage to do so. How many times can you survive when the people you love kill you with their indifference?
Finally abandoning the attempt to get the shower strong enough and hot enough to obliterate feeling anything at all, Aleksey plucked a towel off the rail and went back into his room, gingerly dabbing his burnt scalp. He’d cut away the hair himself, but it would probably blister and prevent him getting a restyle for a few weeks. His back would heal. He always healed.
Philipa was standing in his room, regarding the smoke and turpentine-stinking pile of clothes.
