§ § §
Nikolas woke from a painful sleep. He couldn’t breathe. His nose was completely out of action and his throat swollen from vomit and dehydration. He pulled his knees up to his chest and concentrated on not panicking, just slowly getting some air in and out. He felt himself drifting off again, his body unable to combat the cold, blood loss, and pain. The metal shackles had dug into his swollen wrists so much now he couldn’t feel his fingers at all. Through his pain and slow slide into nothingness, he heard a noise…engines in the distance, a two-stroke whine dipping in and out. He climbed to his knees in agony and tried to shout, but it only came out as a croak. The noise faded, but the door swung open, and a brilliant white light flooded the room. He squinted against it and saw Ben, hair flowing freely like a halo around his head. Ben smiled but didn’t speak. He came over and embraced Nikolas, lifting him effortlessly. They were just about to leave together, to where all light came from, when the door slammed open and Anna came in.
Nikolas jerked awake. He could see the intense bright light of freedom from the open door. Dream and reality were too confused to separate now.
“I have to move you. Oh, God.” She came closer, then backed away. Then she went outside and came back with a bucket.
Nikolas tried to rise to his knees. He refused to meet her lying down, but his body betrayed him. He was too weak to get up. She came closer with the bucket. He had the bizarre thought she was going to try and stuff him in it to move him. She upended it over him. Freezing lake water cascaded down around him, chunks of ice raining down upon him. He gasped, initially revived, lapping clumsily at the puddles on the floor, desperate for the water. Then he started to shake—badly. She nipped closer and yanked away his blankets and the mat. She went out, refilled the bucket and came back and repeated his soaking. He couldn’t speak, his teeth were rattling. His extremities began to shut down as blood drained desperately to his heart and other vital organs to keep them warm. When she was satisfied, she came closer, circling him and then knelt behind him and began to unfasten the shackles. They were very hard to remove because his wrists were swollen into them, but she ripped them off eventually.
For the first time since he’d been taken, Nikolas was completely free.
He lay on the ground, shaking, with his arms still in their fixed position behind. He couldn’t get them to move, couldn’t feel his hands. He was confused and so cold he just wanted to curl up and go to sleep. But he didn’t. He watched her with his one good eye as she rose from her knees and went to her bag. She produced a roll of electrical tape and came back to him, clearly planning to strap up his wrists again. She knelt behind him, his window of opportunity disappearing as he lay helpless. But then she cursed slightly and frowned. She couldn’t find the end of the tape. It was a bizarrely ordinary moment in such extraordinary circumstances. She ran her thumb around the roll, trying to feel where it ended, but it was so cold in the shed her hands appeared to have become numb and unfeeling. She picked at the tape ineffectually. All this time, of course, Nikolas was free.
He closed his eyes briefly. He had three options. He could go for the door and the beautiful freedom that lay beyond. He could go for the tool bench and try to arm himself. Or he could go for her. He was Aleksey Primakov, he went for her. He flung himself over onto his back, crying out at the pain in his frozen arms. She was knocked off-balance—and he was on her. He managed to bring one arm forward and grab her ankle—just that, but he held on, wrapping himself around that one lifeline. She kicked at him with her free leg, but he ducked his face away and let the blows land on his skull and shoulders. She began to beat at him with her hands, but he wouldn’t let go.
Suddenly, she seemed to realise the terrible predicament she was in. He was not going to release her. She was now the one trapped. Slowly, he began to work his way up her body, dragging himself on her clothing until he could pin her down with his weight. She wriggled, gasping and crying in the filth on the floor. He just carried on, inexorably, until they lay in a grotesque parody of sex, he vast and naked above her, she wriggling and screaming beneath. He lifted his head. Perhaps she thought he was going to kiss her, because for one moment she almost looked coy, relieved, but he came down at her throat—and bit. She screamed, but he held on, his jaws eager and very strong.
Flailing, her hand found his shard of glass. She fastened onto it and brought it down on him—hard. It went into his shoulder. He cried out and released her throat, trying to flinch away. She heaved it out and brought it down again, trying to get his neck but caught him in the back as he lifted his arm to deflect the blow. He cried out again and let her go. It was enough. She kicked free and crawled away.
And then she made her greatest error.
She had three options, too—the same three he’d had, but instead of going back for him and finishing him off while he was weak, or going for a weapon, she chose freedom and the beautiful light and purity outside the hideousness of the killing shed. He watched her stagger outside, heard her car start and knew he had to move and keep moving. She’d be back. Once she’d realised her mistake and saw she had the upper hand again, she’d come back. This time, he wouldn’t be strong enough to fight her. He began to drag himself across the floor, sliding on his own blood. He reached the blessed light. He held onto the doorframe and dragged up to his feet. He staggered outside into the blinding intensity of the fresh snow, and then he saw her. She was sitting in her car at the end of the track. She’d seen him as well. He began to stagger toward the lake. He pictured himself falling into its icy waters where she couldn’t follow. He fell in the snow and dragged himself along, leaving a bright, wide smear of red on the virgin white. He glanced behind, and she was there—standing over him.
She was holding her throat with one hand, an expression of horror on her face, blood seeping between her fingers. And in her other hand she held a tyre iron. She looked down at him. “You’re a very bad man.”
He turned on his back, staring up at the perfect blue sky. “Yes, I am. And you’re a cunt.” With that, she lifted the iron bar and swung it at his head.
Something came out of the snow and caught her arm. She gasped and flung it off, swinging the iron bar at it. It squealed in pain and flailed in the snow, but then it came back before she could hit Nikolas. She hit it again, but it was quicker this time and twisted away, landing on its feet, a massive creature of standing fur and snarl and savage muzzle. She tried to back away a little, raising the tyre iron once more, but it was a fatal move. The thing lunged. It caught her bloodied throat and had her down in the snow. Then it stood on her—and ripped. She hit it again and again and something broke, but it didn’t let go. She flailed once more, weakly trying to lift the bar, but it bit deeper. It ripped and tore, and her throat came away in its mouth. It continued to chew as she lay staring sightlessly up at vast sky above them.
Finally, the creature staggered away from the body, its face caked with blood. It fell on its side, panting and whining for a moment, but then it stood and limped slowly over to Nikolas. He twitched his fingers, which was all he could do, and Radulf came and stood over him. Putting his head back, he let out an ear-piercing volley of barks into the still, silent day. He kept it up until they could hear the sound of engines, and then he allowed himself to fall alongside his human. Nikolas couldn’t see him or feel his failing warmth as the sound of the engines grew closer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nikolas was fortunately spared participating in his discovery, his transfer to hospital or any other details for many days. He passed into another place where he moved from bright light to darkness and from places where he heard distant voices saying things in languages he’d forgotten how to speak.
He finally woke on the fifth day and saw a man sitting in a chair alongside him. The man stared at him for a moment, exclaimed, “Thank the fucking Lord. At fucking last,” and left—in a hurry. The next person to arrive was wearing a white coat and began to ask him questions he couldn’t answer because h
is mouth was too dry to move his tongue. The doctor didn’t seem to expect any answers. He nodded to himself, poked Nikolas some more and then left as well.
Next, a young man came into the room. He was familiar, and Nikolas frowned, trying to remember who he was. He was tall and very lean with a shaved, scabby skull. He had wide-set green eyes and was startlingly beautiful. For some reason, he was crying. Nikolas frowned some more and croaked, “Ben?” His eyes widened. The man handed him some water—he was the first one to think to do this—and Nikolas repeated more clearly, “Ben?” then added, “What’s wrong? And what the fuck have you done to your hair?” Ben bit his lip; his face crumpled. He just sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to find something to hold. He picked up one of Nikolas’s bandaged hands and held that.
“Radulf?”
Ben began to cry again, but he was obviously trying to hold it back at the same time. He raised his eyes, bit his lip again, let go of Nikolas’s hand to wipe his face and eventually managed to reply, “Just concentrate on getting better, yeah?”
“I’m fine. Why are you crying?”
“I’m not fucking crying, okay?”
“Fucking? Since when do you swear at me?”
Ben closed his eyes and then gently laid his head down upon Nikolas’s chest.
§ § §
The next time Nikolas woke, he was feeling a lot better. He had a suspicion they’d upped his pain medication, because the sunlight looked as if it were dancing, and everything felt very cheerful. He’d experienced this once or twice before with slightly less legal drugs, so he took the opportunity to enjoy it and get up. He pulled a needle out of the back of his hand and eased himself to sitting—so far so good. He pulled the sheet off and examined himself. His first thought was it was very nice not to be naked for once. He started with his feet. They were black and blue, and his ankle was bandaged but apparently not broken because it was only an elastic bandage—so far so good, again. He didn’t need to note every bruise—everything was bruised. He was black all over, legs, arms, torso. The largest bandages were around his ribs, and there was a faint stain of blood and iodine seeping through them. He had wound coverings on his shoulders and wrists, and his hands were both bandaged. Considering he’d thought he was going to die—and wasn’t it remarkable how many unpleasant ways an ex-torturer could conjure death in his mind?—he felt remarkably good. He eased himself to his feet and shuffled toward the bathroom. You had to be grateful for small mercies in life. Being able to hold himself while he pissed was something he’d been looking forward to. He made it into the small cubicle and took a long piss, clenching his jaw at the pain everywhere now that he was on his feet.
As he tried to remove the bandages on his fingers, he looked up into the mirror. He almost fell. He put his hands up to the mask of white. One eye was completely swollen shut. One cheek was twice its normal size, and his nose was entirely swathed in a huge bandage. He couldn’t feel any of this at all. He turned his head slowly one way and saw a row of Frankenstein stitches across the shaved part of his hair, turned it the other way and saw a large swelling. He heard someone come into the room outside, an exclamation, and then Ben was at his side. They didn’t say anything for a while. Nikolas shrugged. “Just as well one of us is still beautiful.”
Ben clenched his jaw. “You’re such a baby. It’s just a scratch.”
Nikolas tried to smile, but it was impossible. He limped back to the bed with Ben’s help. “Give me my clothes.”
“You’re not leaving. Forget it.”
“If you don’t help me, I’ll do it myself, and I might fall and injure myself, and then it’ll be all your fault.”
Ben helped him pull on some jeans and button a shirt. He didn’t feel quite so ready to leave once this task was completed. Ben helped him lie back on top of the bed and propped him up with a stack of pillows. Nikolas didn’t let him go, holding onto his hand. Ben sat down alongside him. “So, tell me.”
Ben stared at him for a while. “Can we leave it until you’re better?”
“I’m fine, Ben.”
“Can we leave it until I’m better then?”
Nikolas pursed his lips a little. “Not so good, hey?”
“No, not so good.”
“Okay. We’ll leave it. Tell me about Radulf though.”
Ben swallowed. “He lost the sight in one eye completely and can’t see much out of the other they think. His lung was punctured by a rib. He’s out of the hospital and home with Ingrid.”
“Okay.” He was silent for a time, his bandaged fingers picking idly at the sheet, processing this news. “At least we’ve maybe now discovered why he couldn’t be rehomed, yes?” He rubbed his own throat thoughtfully. He closed his one good eye, then swung his arm and smashed the water glass off the table. “That fucking cunting fuck of a whore.”
“Nikolas!”
Nikolas shrugged. “It’s only you who I don’t like to hear swear.”
§ § §
Four days later, they removed the bandages from Nikolas’s face. He wasn’t given any pain medication for this procedure, which he tried to remedy—forcibly. When they’d finished, Ben was allowed in again. He helped him to the bathroom. It was almost recognisable as his face now. It was still very swollen and beautiful shades of blue and purple, green and yellow, but it would heal. Everything would heal.
Nikolas turned to Ben and took his face in his hands. Very carefully he kissed him. It was the gentlest kiss they’d ever shared.
Ben then took over, cupping Nikolas’s face like a precious thing, butterfly-kissing his warm lips, kissing over his good eye, even placing the lightest of kisses on the fracture across his nose, and then pressing harder into the places that could take harder kissing, his neck, his throat, some of the bruising on his collarbone. Very carefully, Ben unbuttoned Nikolas’s shirt and kissed his healing shoulder wound, licking it gently, returning to his neck, licking and sucking. Ben’s hand strayed down to Nikolas’s jeans, and he grunted, clearly pleased and relieved at what he found, but when Nikolas pressed the hand on firmer, Ben eased away and shook his head. “Later.”
“Then let’s go.”
“You need to—”
“I need you, Benjamin. Everything else in this world I’ve discovered over the last few days is unnecessary to me. I need life, and I need you. Now, we’re leaving. Make yourself more useful than you usually do and pack my bag.”
§ § §
On the car ride back to the lodge, Nikolas cranked up the heat in the vehicle to almost unbearable levels, and this was to be a feature of their lives over the next few days. He wanted the cabin heated to tropical temperatures that forced Ben outside for frequent relief breaks. Ben went through the woodpile at twice the previous rate, keeping fires high and roaring all day. Ben would’ve let him burn the place down if that was what he needed.
Ben would never forget what he’d found in the snow that day when he and Squeezy followed the sound of the barking. It looked as if someone had been fed through a wood chipper. There was blood everywhere, sprayed out around the three bodies. Seeing Gabby so obviously dead, her throat ripped out and dragged across the snow, he knew all three of them were equally gone. It was not possible anything could have survived that bloodbath, and it didn’t occur to him to think it could be otherwise. It was Squeezy who’d found Nikolas was still alive. Just. It was Squeezy who immediately stripped off his own warm clothes and dressed the naked body as best he could then stripped Ben of his outer layers to use them as well, at the same time calling for an air ambulance and shouting at Ben to make him repeat it all in Danish. He’d made Ben sit with Nikolas, cradling him, protecting him as best as he could from the snow, while he ran into the shed and found the blankets and brought them out, wrapping up the unconscious man and the dog. When he could do no more for the injured, he’d covered the staring face of the dead. He was the one who drove one of the snowmobiles a little way away and set fire to it, sending up a whoosh of black smoke and orange flame i
nto the blank, white landscape. He was the one who’d taken the unconscious dog to the vet while Ben travelled in the ambulance with Nikolas.
On the second day home, Nikolas was well enough to be helped down to the sofa. His skull fracture was still making him nauseous. He was weak and cranky. He complained about the almost constant pain from his cheekbone and broken nose. Ben suspected this last had far more to do with the fact they couldn’t kiss than it really did about pain, so he let him whine; he wanted to whine about the no kissing, too.
He eased onto the sofa as close as Nikolas could tolerate and handed him some coffee. Nikolas smelt it and turned his face away. “Coffee’s lost its appeal, I think.” He slid his hand into the back of Ben’s T-shirt, and down onto the warm skin beneath the waistband of his jeans. “So, it’s time to talk, maybe?”
“Are you sure—?”
“Just tell me. No one will tell me anything.”
“It was Gabby.”
Conscious Decisions of the Heart Page 16