“What’s wrong?”
Nikolas swallowed. “Nothing. I was just thinking.” It had also occurred to him much of what the police had insinuated, things that’d clearly affected Ben deeply and had greatly contributed to his diminishing, would now be healed by seeing himself in this new light, the legitimate owner of an ancient name and house.
“Redvers. Ben Redvers. I can’t—”
“You’re maybe fixating on the wrong thing? The house? Your inheritance?”
Ben shook his head, wonderingly. “It took us there, Nik—the sat-thingy, when you put in a completely different address, it took us there.”
Nikolas stared at him. “You’re not going to recruit me into your twilight-world beliefs, Ben. It’s a far more rational explanation that, by mistake, I happened to put that address in because I’d maybe heard you mumble it one night.” He pursed his lips. “But even I think that sounds unlikely.”
“It was fate.”
Nikolas groaned and fell onto his back. Ben slid carefully on top of him, eyeing the bandages around his ribs. “This okay?”
Nikolas nodded. “It’d be okay even if it wasn’t.”
“My house.” Ben frowned. “It’s mine.” He swooped down and kissed Nikolas, opening Nikolas’s mouth with his tongue, tasting him, moving up to kiss his scarred nose—one of his favourite places on Nikolas’s face now after the rakish scar on his cheekbone, which was kissed next. Nikolas laughed into the feel of Ben’s soft lips and the feel of other things much harder. “You’re getting better. The restorative powers of inheriting money are impressive.”
Ben put a hand down to Nikolas’s entrance and teased him with a finger. “How well are you feeling?”
“I wasn’t injured there.”
Ben grinned and proved that, indeed, Nikolas’s injuries didn’t extend to his insides. He lifted one thigh and pushed his slick, needy cockhead against the tight entrance. They both hissed in expectation, and then Ben entered. He arched back; Nikolas let out a sigh of great pleasure. Very gently, far more gently than they usually played out their passion, Ben skilfully brought them much desired and much needed release. Nikolas let his milky fluid jet up onto his belly and felt Ben shudder above him. It was the old Ben he heard and felt. When he opened his eyes, other than the ridiculous shorn hair that would grow once more, he saw the old Ben, too, wide-set green eyes and a face almost too beautiful for a man. Ben stayed in and lay down on Nikolas’s spill. “Too heavy?”
“Never.” He put his hands up and began to stroke Ben’s soft scalp. The bandage on his wrist shone white in the gloom, and he peeled it off. He was healed enough. When he was done, he picked up Ben’s wrist and did the same, more carefully, for his cut had been far deeper. He examined it, running his thumb over the stitches he’d put in, then placed both scars carefully together as they drifted to sleep, still joined.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“When can we go to the house? Nik? Are you awake?”
“I am now.” He glanced at the clock. “Fucking hell, Ben, it’s two a.m. I’ve been asleep for approximately half an hour. Fuck off.”
“Did you just swear at me?”
“I never swear, as you know. Get off me and go to sleep.” Ben dutifully rolled off Nikolas, easing himself out as he did. He was hard again, but although Nikolas had obviously noticed this, he turned on his side away from Ben and pulled the covers over his head.
Ben lay thinking things over, his head buzzing, totally unable to sleep. After a while, he got up, but a hand snaked out from the covers and caught his wrist. “Where’re you going?”
“Just down to get some water! I’m okay, Nik. God, you’ll be following me to the bathroom…” He trailed off and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “Sorry.”
“That’s the old Benjamin. Apologising for things that are my fault. I give you my permission to get some water.”
Ben thumped him gently where he could see skin and not bruising or scarring and went downstairs. He sat with Radulf for while as he drank the water, updating him on the house situation.
When he returned to bed, Nikolas was asleep, which was a good sign. He’d not slept for the last two nights but had kept vigil beside him. He slid very carefully in alongside the silent figure.
If Ben could cut off a hand or arm or something vital to make visible and obvious amends for what he’d put Nikolas through, he would. Sometimes, in the dark of the night, he woke up with a huge weight of fear pressing down on him when he remembered if he’d succeeded in doing what he’d tried to do, if Nikolas had stayed down at the lake for half an hour, maybe fifteen minutes longer, Nik would’ve come back to the cabin and found himself alone, betrayed—deserted. After all he’d gone through. After all he’d done to survive and come back to him. Nikolas told him he wouldn’t have succeeded anyway, because he was cutting wrong or something—Nikolas had a slightly unsettling knowledge of these things—but Ben wasn’t so sure about this. He was determined when he put his mind to things. So now he had Nikolas’s return to health to put his mind to. If Nikolas wanted to baby him, feed him, constantly watch him, then he, Ben, would let him. He’d grumble and complain and pretend he didn’t need Nik’s constant attention, because it wouldn’t seem normal without that. He would, however, be and do whatever Nikolas Mikkelsen wanted him to be and do, for however long Nik wanted—needed—that to be. They were joined now. He too put their wrists together at the matching scars. Who needed rings to bind you unto death when you had scars and stitches, bruises and blood?
He spooned himself against Nikolas’s warm back, moulding himself around his firm arse, pressing his swelling cock against the warm flesh where it would wait, satisfactorily hard and eager until they were ready. He slid his arm over Nik’s chest and pressed his face against his hair. When he was fully immersed in the scent and feel of real-Nikolas, he breathed deeply once and let himself think about the house, his name, and all that might come of this great revelation.
§ § §
It took them almost another week to extract themselves from Denmark and return home to London. Nikolas had builders at the summerhouse to organise; Ben had people to say good-bye to. Nikolas felt sure their involvement with Gabby Peterson was not entirely over, but he’d retained Jans LaCour’s services as well and left further liaison with the police in his capable hands. Ben, he was determined, wouldn’t be questioned by them again.
It was on a very dark, wet and cold January night, therefore, they returned to English soil and drove the final few miles through heavy rain to their house in London. It’d been totally cleansed of the events that’d driven them both from home many months ago, and Kate had been in and put the heating on and left them a refrigerator full of food. Nikolas went immediately to his office. Radulf was clearly glad to be back in familiar territory, and this, added to the high of his successful and highly illegal defeat of British customs, saw him collapse happily in his basket in the kitchen. Which only left Ben. He was feeling disassociated again. He’d lived a life of brilliant white snow and Danish for so long that to return to rain and the washed-out greys of London and the flatter, more prosaic English was unsettling. He needed to unpack but only stared at their bags without enthusiasm. He desperately needed to do laundry but, again, couldn’t summon the energy. All he wanted to do was go to his house, to feel once more the strange spirit of place that had so entranced him the first time—but now enjoy it knowing its provenance. But Nikolas had finally admitted to him his claim was being contested and had told him to be patient.
He put the kettle on which was always a good standby and eyed the bottles of wine Kate had left on the counter. Both he and Nikolas had stopped drinking after…He looked down at his wrist. He was rubbing his scar again. Nikolas badgered him about this as much as he’d once nagged Nik about smoking. He couldn’t seem to stop doing it. It was like a talisman, if he rubbed it, it reminded him. Reminded, he knew what he owed now to Nikolas. Nikolas wanted him to owe it to himself, but Ben knew better. If he was getting better, if his world was righting itself once more on its correct axis, then this was because he too wanted a long life—and he wanted it alongside Nikolas Mikkelsen.
