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Chapter One
Aleksey was in trouble. He was in bed. He hadn’t been sent to bed in disgrace; he wasn’t six. But he had been, well, ordered to rest, and it appeared that the sofa wasn’t horizontal enough. He’d neededbedrest. Apparently.
For many years of his long life he’d sought attention like this, craved it, felt hollowed out by its lack; now he reckoned he could do with a little less—such as not being banished to bed at two o’clock in the afternoon. And all because he’d escaped Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen’s hawk-like observation of him for a couple of hours and taken the stupid dogs for a walk.
And, yes, he hadn’t taken his cane. He knew this. He really didn’t need it pointing out. And, yes, again, he’d gone for a whole two hours and probably walked an entire six miles. All right, yes, and slipped climbing a tor. Again, no need to make pointed observations about how dumb he was, how moronic, that he was an imbecile and that, fucking hell, he was now limping again. Badly.
Heknewall this. It was his fucking leg, after all. He had to live with it all day and, more distressingly, all night.
But he’d just wanted to be…normal. He’d just wanted two hours without being reminded that he was…damaged.
Well, now he was suffering for it.
The dogs were possibly in even more disgrace for egging him on and accompanying him, nipping out silently and following him obediently across the grounds to the lane, their habitual barking and exuberance stealthily muted for this forbidden break out. They were in their baskets with no treats.
Aleksey pursed his lips at this thought and studied himself tucked under the cover. It wasn’t that far of a stretch to see himself as having been sent to his basket, and he didn’t have any treats either.
He studied the afternoon light through the glass roof above him for a while, thinking about nothing in particular except pain and various ways to alleviate it:histreats. But if he was in Ben’s bad books now, it would be as nothing to the shit which would pour down upon him from on high if he went downthatroute.
Names weren’t the only things that had changed after that fateful day in the mine shaft. Promises had been made. After all, in the long run, names were superficial and meant nothing—real alteration needed to be indicative of a more fundamental transformation. So a lot of things that Nikolas Mikkelsen had enjoyed were now buried with him.
Aleksey had never been a religious man, but six months on and still trying to recover from an injury that had been singularly the most agonising experience in a long life of pain, he was beginning to consider a little resurrection…
He heard a faint rustle of clothing and shuffled upright in the bed, trying to look contrite, obedient and, most importantly, rested. Ben came in with a mug of tea. They regarded each other for a moment.
‘Well?’
Aleksey sighed, but only inwardly. Outwardly he increased the contrite part of his expression and nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I’m okay. No damage done.’
Ben came around to his side of the bed and perched alongside his legs. Aleksey seized up, but, again, only mentally. It didn’t do to show Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen that his leg was worse than he admitted, and that he was actually extremely wary of anyone sitting on it or knocking it. He took the offered tea and stared gloomily into the steam for a while.
‘You deliberately slipped out while I was in the gym.’
‘I did.’
‘You went by the driveway and the lane so the guys wouldn’t see you.’
A small nod.
‘You barely made it home.’
‘Ack, you’re exaggerating, Ben.’ Bit risky, given he was in the proverbial shit already, but one advantage of being…damaged…was that Ben didn’t find it so easy to punish him for such provocation these days. You could hardly hit an invalid, could you?
He sipped his tea, pondering his unfortunate situation.
‘Why didn’t you just go riding if you wanted some fresh air?’
Aleksey shrugged. Why not indeed? He couldn’t explain it to himself, let alone to Ben. Only the moron seemed to get it, but Squeezy’s understanding was so couched in equal amounts of profanity and inanity that having a helpful conversation on the subject of his recovery was utterly useless.
Aleksey just wanted to be himself again.
And, yes, he realised that anyone who’d known him over his life, particularly Phillipa, his ex, would assert that a sudden desire to stride for two hours across moorland was completelyabnormal—he never exerted himself to do very much at all, particularly walking. And if asked, Ben would counter with exactly what he’d just observed, or suggest he go for a swim. He had a horse and he had a pool, both forms of exercise perfect for a recovering leg injury. But, no, he’d stridden off across tor and bog, a hobbling Heathcliff redressing a personal affront only he seemed to acknowledge.
Ben stretched out a hand and cupped him around the back of the neck. Gently, he tugged until their foreheads were resting together.
Aleksey didn’t want this.
Just as he didn’t want the attention after craving it all his life, he couldn’t cope with soft sympathy either. It just wasn’t the way they were together.
