The Bruise_Black Sky (10 page)

Nikolas coughed to test his voice, and then said relatively steadily, “Her father, Anatoly, was Sergei’s friend—a political officer in Moscow.” He switched to stroking Ben’s back, which was warm, but tense. Ben wasn’t as relaxed as he probably wanted Nikolas to think he was. He predicted the muscles under his hand were about to get a lot tenser. “You know I have told you about Sergei…” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Well, he liked his friends—had cultivated many throughout the system. He
needed
his friends. Anyone in his position would.” He was silent for some time, not deliberately drawing his confession out, but suddenly lost to memories of the houses and parties, the alcohol and drugs and debauchery. He’d been a tiny blond minnow in a sea of sharks.

Nikolas felt the arm over his face being lifted, and Ben was watching him, his green eyes wide and forgiving, even before confessions were made. He leant down and kissed Nikolas’s lip, easing the bottom one gently between his teeth, biting just to elicit a moan of desire from Nikolas, acknowledgement of the intimate trust between them, which, Nikolas realised, was just what he needed to continue. Ben was clever like that sometimes. He cupped his hand around Ben and pulled him down into the crook of his neck and completed his story. “I have not told you that Sergei would invite his friends over to party with him. Well, with me, I suppose I should say.” Ben shuddered lightly under his palm—the jolt of tension he’d predicted—and Nikolas held him very tightly so Ben couldn’t lift up and see his face. “Mainly at holiday times—you know, Lenin’s fucking birthday…Christmas, always, of course. So, Anatoly and I had already met…When we met again, his political star was falling, and I thought he owed me, so I took his daughter. Then I took him—arrested him. I had seen enough of Anatoly to not want to take him in any other way, you understand.” Now that the worst was over, he allowed Ben to come up to meet his gaze.

“So, now you know. I selected the pictures I wanted you to see, to ask me about—Nina, Nika, Aeroe, my stellar career being such a great hero of the Soviet Republic, but not me with them, which was not so stellar. I don’t do it to keep you from my past, Ben, I do it to keep my past from you—keep you in the light. I mean…
keep you
…I don’t know. I can’t say it in English.”

“Say it in Russian then.”

“You wouldn’t understand it then.”

“Yeah, I would.” Ben came back to Nikolas’s mouth as if gentle kisses and a tongue touched to a tongue could translate what was needed between them without the need for shared language, and Nikolas reckoned they did.

It helped a great deal in the understanding when Ben slid back a little and onto him. He was hard again. Ben was warm and slippery and took him in fully, right to the hilt, and then he sat up and took over the fucking, working Nikolas, riding him, hands spread on his chest, the heel of one palm right over his heart, that steady beat between them as they joined their flesh in other ways.

Nikolas flung his arms to the side, crucified on the pleasure of Ben’s tight arse muscles clenching and releasing, the rising and lowering. Ben leant over and kissed him, no tender touches now, but furious kisses with biting and clashing of teeth and desperate cries of need.

They came together with their lips still fastened, the thumping, agonising bliss below forming into breathy pants of relief into each other’s mouths, and smiles mirrored as the last shudders were wrung from them, the last drops exchanged—before it all began again.

Nikolas turned swiftly. Ben rose behind him. They knew the moves as if they’d consciously rehearsed them instead of their bodies just soaking in the knowledge over years of such intensity. Ben was hard enough again after a few strokes, and he pushed into Nikolas, dragging Nikolas’s lean hips higher, shoving his head to the bed. Nikolas groaned at the penetration, rose into it, and did not allow memories of Anatoly or Sergei or Yuri or Boris, or any of the succession of his father’s friends, consciously enter his mind and be compared to this.

He’d swum that sewer to the end, climbed out, washed off, and emerged into the sunlight.

Nothing,
nothing
, was going to follow him out of that rankness and touch Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen.

Nothing.

§§§

Ben was awake long before Nikolas, which he enjoyed because he got to lie alongside him and admire the exterior for a while before the interior revived and made admiration more difficult. There was a lot to admire about Nikolas’s body, so Ben concentrated on that as he lay dishevelled and working himself up to go for a long run. He needed to keep his fitness up just now…

He’d always liked Nikolas’s feet for some reason. It wasn’t something he’d ever told Nikolas, of course, but as with Nikolas’s hands, which were elegant and long-fingered, Nikolas’s feet and toes were particularly well shaped. Ben liked his legs too. The knees he could take or leave, but the thighs were particularly attractive, especially where they joined. Front or rear joining were both spectacularly good, and as Nikolas was sprawled on his belly, one thigh bent up as if he’d fallen asleep—actually, Ben remembered, Nikolas probably had fallen asleep being fucked, so there was some excuse for this position. They’d had a couple more rounds in the early hours. Nikolas probably wouldn’t wake until lunchtime now.

So, he got to study Nikolas’s arse while he was asleep and couldn’t object. It was worth detailed consideration. As with the rest of Nikolas’s body, it was tight and lean and…Ben smirked. Ready for action. Nikolas was a live wire beneath his lazy, ironic demeanour. One touch was usually all it took to get Nikolas ready—to fight or fuck, it didn’t seem to matter.

He’d never seen Nikolas fail like that before. Flag. It was something of a revelation to Ben that Nikolas could soften. Perhaps a good thing…in a way…reassuring almost. It proved that what Nikolas did, the almost constant need for sex, was willing, conscious, desired…not just some freaky biological thing that meant he was always hard and therefore his erections were not for…
him
. Ben quirked a small private smile, his gaze trailing up Nikolas’s back, every knob on his spine visible because Nikolas was too thin, still, despite Ben’s attempts to fatten him up with his cooking skills. He wondered if Nikolas had eaten anything during his extra week in Scotland, and then wondered again what he’d been up to. Nikolas’s hands were swollen, his beautiful, elegant fingers bruised, knuckles split. He’d heal, but it was infuriating to see.

And then Ben reached the feature he most liked to look at—Nikolas’s face. Was there a man more beautiful, more what he was not inside outside? His fallen angel, trailing only tendrils of glory…but shining still.

Ben knew he could not love Nikolas more if he were perfect inside, became exactly what
he
wanted him to be, because then something that was essential to Nikolas would be lost. For the first time, Ben began to wonder if he
should
try to change Nikolas—stop him smoking, drinking, doing whatever else he did to block reality. Should he be trying to make him eat healthily, take some exercise, not kill people…? He began to see that he loved Nikolas
because
he was so flawed. He needed Nikolas’s flaws so the perfection was all that more…exquisite.

He rolled over onto his back and swore in his head for a long time—the only place he was allowed to swear. He wasn’t good at thinking. He couldn’t even express in thought why he loved this infuriating man so much.

Or, more to the point, why he was now so set on going to New Zealand with Peter Cameron…

Going to New Zealand without Nikolas…

Because that is what he was going to do.

He had a month left in Devon, and then he was flying to Christchurch via Singapore.

One month…despite loving Nikolas so much that he felt sick at the thought of the separation.

But then he realised that Nikolas’s horrible story had only
confirmed
his decision to do this unthinkable thing.

Nikolas only ever wanted things he shouldn’t have. He’d apparently married the girl, Kristina, to punish her father. To avenge himself upon Anatoly. He took Kristina and then abandoned her with as much concern as he flicked his cigarette butts out of the car window.

Ben knew with a certainly he couldn’t articulate that had Kristina run, had she been a little more fleet of foot, Nikolas would have given chase.

Had Kristina gone to New Zealand, perhaps, she would not have been accosting Nikolas in shock outside a tent.
She’d
have been the one on his arm.

Ben had no intention of his awful prediction coming true—of one day coming across Nikolas outside a party and saying, astonished, “Nikolas?” only to have Nikolas pretend not to know him, or know him but say nonchalantly, “Ben. How delightful. Meet…” Andy, Jimmy, Tommy, or whatever fucking other boy Nikolas would have alongside him.
That
wasn’t going to happen.

Nikolas
wasn’t
free to walk any time he wanted.
Not at all
.

Nikolas Mikkelsen was
his
, and he was going to work a little harder at keeping him.

Fucking off to New Zealand without him should do it nicely.

It was a good start at least.

Ben rose carefully from the bed, only eliciting a grunt from Nikolas and a shift into the warmer spot remaining. He pulled on his running gear and slipped out of the bedroom.

It was eight o’clock, warm already.

He was the only one awake in the house.

He was the only human being on Dartmoor, the whole glorious expanse his alone. He didn’t even feel the soft springy turf beneath his feet. He soared.

Sheep skittered bleating from him. Ponies tossed their manes and watched him, cautious with new foals, but not afraid. He ran to the top of Drover Tor, which gave him a view right over to Cornwall and Mount Edgcumbe. He’d been taken there once from junior leader’s camp to see the house Hitler had apparently chosen to be his after the invasion. The thought reminded Ben of what had come by courier the day before—three box sets of
After the Wars
. He hadn’t opened them yet.

Could he do this?

Could he leave Nikolas?

Nikolas had left him to go to Russia with an old lover.

He’d gone to Denmark, waiting patiently for Nik’s return. A sap, learning Nikolas’s language, immersing himself in spirit of Nikolas…Ben doubted very much Nikolas would travel to Beck Side, Yorkshire, and live in his old house, trying to find spirit of him. What would Nikolas do for the months he would be away? It didn’t bear thinking about. But wasn’t that the point? The test?

He sniffed and tightened his shoelaces, flicked out a hundred push-ups, watching a large, black moorland beetle scurrying around intent on its important business on the granite rocks.

When he was done, arms burning pleasantly, he climbed back down the rocks. He was tempted to take the shortcut, but that led past the bog. Last time he’d run past this notorious site, a sheep had been lying half in, half out, just its hindquarters sticking up, still intact and standing. One gnarled, withered old tree stump stood alongside this traitorous place. It always resembled, in Ben’s mind, a hooded figure, head bowed, contemplating the mud. It had looked to him the day he’d found the sheep as if the poor creature had been pushed into the killing peat by this strange manifestation and held headfirst, suffocating.

The place was a gruesome reminder of the power of nature, the true wilderness they lived alongside. Both he and Nikolas always used the longer, safer track as a matter of course, and he did so now.

He’d jogged up to the tor. Now he sprinted. He pushed himself harder than he usually did, running through small streams rather than skirting them, going up and over rocks rather than around the base. By the time he reached the dry stone wall, the demarcation between their land and the moors, he was shaking with exhaustion but feeling clear headed for the first time since a shadow called Kristina had slid over him at just the moment he’d been the most secure, the most relaxed, the most…in love.

Even feeling the temptation to propose something…?

He still hadn’t finished his workout. He went straight through the bedroom, noted Nikolas had managed to turn over, and passed through the bathroom to his gym. Nikolas had built him a private gym with commercial grade Precor equipment.

For the first time ever, he stood in front of the mirrored back wall and studied himself—his physique. Although Nikolas had spent ten years calling him vain, deriding the guy-bunny in him, mocking his fitness obsession (whilst at the same time enjoying all the benefits of it—frequently), Ben wasn’t narcissistic. He never had been. He liked being fit. He liked being the strongest in any room (including rooms with Nikolas in them, although this belief would be hotly contested if he voiced it). He enjoyed examining his form and seeing individual muscles strong and stark beneath the skin. Was that vanity? Perhaps it was. He’d never considered it before.

Now he looked from the eye of someone selecting him to portray the life of a man who’d been a gladiator, a man who’d risen to a brief pinnacle of fame because of his face and his body and the pain he’d gone through to achieve that shape. Peter had told him that their main problem would be portraying Oliver Whitestone before he went to the
Wars
training camp, because Ben had that gladiatorial build already. He supposed he did. Judging himself now, he acknowledged anatomical perfection—what he’d been striving for his whole life. Muddy, sweaty as he was, splash him with blood and he could be standing in an arena before a baying crowd. He turned side on. Oliver Whitestone had only been six foot tall—taller than almost all his fellow cast members. Even so, Ben would have towered over him.

He started on his routine. One hour. Chest, biceps, curls, rowing, declined twists…it was all so familiar. He’d been doing it since he was sixteen, since the army had given him gyms and training instructors all for free, all for a return of service, which he’d been more than willing to give.

He paid particular attention to his abs, declining the bench at a steeper angle than normal. He began to plan his diet for the next month. He’d cut out all carbs except vegetables, and step up his intake of good fat. Nikolas wouldn’t even notice. He spent mealtimes trying to avoid getting nagged that he wasn’t eating and that he was drinking too much. Ben smiled a little. Nikolas would actually probably like the new meals he was planning. No more pasta. No more scones. No more clotted cream. No more biscuits or toast. No more
alcohol
. Fucking hell.