Page 88 of The Bright and Hungry Future of Hawks

Nikolas did turn at that and considered Ben for a moment. Ben caught the swift, familiar appraisal, one soldier to another. As he’d already worked out, he had nothing to be worried about. Theybothknew these days who would win any fight between them, and if Nikolas didn't, he'd soon find out if he began one. Nik seemed to sense something of Ben's thoughts, which wasn't that uncommon either, and gave a shrug of his own. "Do what you want. You always do."

Ben ignored this. He had a feeling there'd be more important things to fight about soon.

Had he always suspected Nikolas had been involved in Nate’s death? Possibly. There were days when watching Nikolas with Molly, Ben also wondered how much Nikolas was to blame for her motherless state. Or was he just telling himself this to take the edge off the shock of that phone call?This is about Nate. Ben wanted to believe that he could not have stayed by Nikolas's side all these years if he had suspected any of this.

But sometimes, in the darkest hour of the night, entangled in the warmth of Nikolas’s body, Ben had even worse thoughts. He pictured a little boy swimming. An extremely strong swimmer. A determined one. One who was not loved, who was beaten, who was starved. And one who wanted, very mistakenly, to be with his father in Russia.

And these thoughts always made him turn into the warmth, enfold hot flesh in his powerful arms, as if he could shield the sleeping man from these images invading his dreams.

But he wasn't going to ask about the fire—conversations were things to be had when the immediate danger was done.

Nikolas began to walk towards the rising sun. Ben couldn't decide if he had a destination in mind or was just taking the most obvious route to the east. He matched the long stride, just a few feet behind, not talking, the dogs keeping their own counsel and flanking them both.

* * *

Chapter 49

Nine Years Ago

If there was one thing Aleksey particularly loathed, it was introspective people. People who thought too much about everything. Just do was his motto. But if hewerethe sort of man who thought about things a great deal, usually when lying alone in bed smoking, or slowly meandering his horse through the early winter grounds of Barton Combe, or even in the back of his armoured limousine being driven to meetings with ex-Etonians fortea, chocky bikkies and a tincy chat, then he would have pondered the fact that maybe he wasn’t such a good observer of human nature as he always prided himself on being. He thought he studied people, learnt their strengths and weaknesses and how he could exploit both. But now, waiting outside a hotel room somewhere in London, running his fingers repeatedly through his blond strands to keep the fucking things off his forehead, he realised that he was possibly a totally shit reader of human nature after all.

He was rarely present in any situation or conversation, which did, he had to admit, make such study difficult. Maybe, being far away and thinking very different thoughts, he missed subtle clues about how other people were feeling. Maybe it was not giving a shit about anyone’s feelings either. That was also possible.

But take this meeting, for example.

There was a lot he wanted to know.

But how do you find out what someone else is thinking?

The real truth of a situation?

Could he have worked out for himself why his mother didn’t love him if he’d only stopped for one moment and really seen her?

He wasn’t sure.

He had no experience of this feelings thing at all, and he was uncharacteristically undecided. Notafraid. He was Aleksey Primakov, and he didn’t do fear. Not absolutely fucking terrified either because not doing fear sort of ruled that out too.

No, just undecided and hisfuckinghair!

And fuck he was late now!

Shit.

He took a deep breath, switched from Russian to Danish in his head and put his hand on the door. But it was hard to think about Ben in Danish.

The force that was Benjamin Rider had existed for four years now in his mind in Russian, a wild creature of the Steppes, a wolf, a Czar, a Cossack, hisAkhal-Teke. What would he become translated into Danish? Or, God forbid, English.

Aleksey didn’t want to let this thought materialise, but inevitably it did.

Ben, and what this was, what they had together, might become real, that's what.

Aleksey wrinkled his nose, finding some fascinating patterns in the hotel corridor carpet.

The fire wasn't the only cock up, therefore, as far as Aleksey could see.

His whole life was a total fuck up.

But itwaslife. And it was a better one than he'd had for most of the rest of his forty-something years.

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