The Other Side of Winter Read online

  Reluctantly he pulled away. “Let’s get out of here. I want you naked and in my bed.”

  Awareness slowly crept back into Alex’s eyes. He turned away, a fierce blush darkening his neck, and mumbled something that could have been a curse.

  Bengt followed him downstairs, again curbing his instinct to simply pull him close. This wasn’t easy for either of them. He’d just have to keep his temper in check and think with his head instead of his gut. Or anything else. That last part would be the hardest. But Alex couldn’t be expected to shed his past life like a snake skin. He deserved the time and space to find his feet. Bengt only hoped he’d be able to give them to him.

  The little orange light came on when Alex flipped the switch on the kettle. His scruffy old tea chest with its numerous drawers looked as out of place on the counter as he felt in this country where everything was ordered, clean, and documented, and where, from what he’d seen in town, people wouldn’t dream of not parking straight between the designated lines. He walked over to the open patio door and leaned against the frame. Arms crossed, he stared out to where the lake shimmered in the sun.

  From the language to the cool weather to the fact that even the most useless things ran on electricity—his world was suddenly full of tiny gadgets—everything was different. Little changes that made his skin crawl with the threat of the unexpected, the not knowing the hiding places in this world, the difficulty of acting normal and running under the radar when the way he looked marked him as different.

  The very house he now lived in had appeared alien from the moment he first saw it from a driveway that was long enough to be its own road through the woods.

  The main door facing the turning circle sat in the windowless side of a two-story wooden house so dark it seemed black. The off-center gable allowed the roof to slope almost to the ground on the north side, where the house nestled against the trees. A much shorter solar-paneled roof overhung the south face with the patio and an indoor/outdoor pool at the edge of a large clearing that ended at the shore of the lake. The south wall was all glass, one gigantic window that made the most of the existing sunlight, letting it flood both floors, nearly unhindered by walls.

  White paint and blond wood brightened the inside, where the architecture drew the gaze up to the rafters and out to the lake. The open second floor defied gravity by some construction mystery that made Alex dizzy; a glass railing hugged the airy stairs that curved upward like an afterthought. On Santuario, every house had been designed to keep the heat out. Here, every effort had been made to draw it in.

  But the biggest difference, the one that consumed him, was waking up every morning next to the man who’d set all these changes in motion. Bengt. To have him around every day, to be able to touch him whenever he wanted, was seductive and terrifying.

  Sex had never been a big part of Alex’s life. He had assumed that was just the way he was wired. Some guys were randy all the time, some weren’t. None of the few women in his life had swept him off his feet. He tried to remember if, in hindsight, there’d been a guy in his past he’d had a crush on or thought about more than others, and came up blank. If the academy and his years as a cop had taught him anything about gay sex, it was disgust.

  And then Bengt had happened. Had muscled his way into Alex’s life with his wide blue eyes, his disarming honesty, and his unapologetic appreciation of male bodies in general and Alex’s in particular. Had thoroughly disabused Alex of the notion that he was just wired that way. And Alex had lost his head.

  But Bengt had left, and Alex had been stuck where just looking at a man wrong could get him killed. Piece by grueling piece, and working his treacherous body to the point of exhaustion every day, he’d rebuilt his protective walls from the rubble Bengt had left, until he didn’t even have to think about having his mask in place anymore, until it was fused into his skin. Now the difficulty was not knowing how to be without it.

  Bengt deserved more from him than a mask. Deserved to know how much Alex wanted what he was offering, the heady seduction as well as the safe bedrock. But how? When you were struggling in quicksand, you didn’t drag others in with you; you tried to float, and move as little and as slowly as possible.

  He had no idea what to expect, how this—he didn’t even know what to call it—could work. He just knew that another year like the past one was not something he’d survive again. As much as he wanted to, he could never again risk losing himself as utterly as he had that first night with Bengt. He’d have to take it one day at a time, stay in control, watch, listen, and see where things led.

  The kettle flicked off with an audible click, and the doorbell rang.

  “Can you get that?” Bengt called from his desk where he was trying to capture what he called his stray thoughts on a recent case before the party later. The party Alex preferred not to think about because the thought of meeting everyone who meant something to Bengt, and failing expectations, made him sick.

  He opened the door to a man with keen hazel eyes and an infectious smile, slightly shorter than himself, heavily muscled, with the kind of arched traps and thick neck that spoke of weight lifting.

  “Hi, I’m Tomas. Bengt asked me to help with the food? You must be Alex. Happy birthday.” He grasped Alex’s arm and pulled him into a brief hug.

  Alex tried to relax; he’d never get used to all the hugging going on in this country. Especially from a gender that had been rather precipitously catapulted onto his sexual radar a year ago. “Thanks. Nice to meet you,” he managed, and even remembered to touch Tomas’s shoulder in return. “I expect you know your way around?”

  Tomas nodded. “I’ll install myself in the kitchen right away, if you don’t mind. And dump this in the fridge?” He pointed at the cooler he’d brought.

  Alex shrugged. “Sure.” As if this was his house.

  “Hi, Tom,” Bengt yelled from the back. “Kitchen’s all yours.”

  Tomas winked at Alex. “Isn’t it always?”

  Alex grinned. Bengt and cooking didn’t go together. He had a gleaming, state-of-the-art kitchen whose secrets Alex hadn’t even begun to explore, and he habitually ate out or ordered in. But he hadn’t protested when Alex set his tea chest on the counter, and had invited him to use or ignore the kitchen as he pleased.

  “Want a hand?” Alex asked Tomas, who’d unpacked some jars and small packages and a six-pack.

  “Absolutely.” Tomas opened two bottles, gave one to Alex, and raised his. “Let’s get this party started.”

  Alex took a small sip, then set the bottle aside. If this party thing was to go well, he needed to look like he was enjoying himself. And for that he needed every bit of focus he could muster. At least he had to think less and less about the language. He was even dreaming in Skanes.

  Tomas set Alex to work with a knife and chopping board while he did some magic with meat, skewers, and the marinades and spices he’d brought, effortlessly taking command of the kitchen and Alex. A dangerous package of iron will and rapier wit, pleasantly wrapped in charm and easy banter. Good thing he was a friend.

  “Here, try this.” Tomas was holding out a small bowl whose contents he’d just scraped onto the meat skewers.

  Alex wiped his finger along its side and tried the reddish marinade. Heat and flavors exploded on his tongue, tangy and herbal with just a hint of sweet. “Mmm, this is really good.” He looked up, straight into Tomas’s eyes. A small electric current ran through his body. Fuck. Was he going to react to every passable stranger now like a cat in heat?

  Tomas raised a single eyebrow. “I don’t poach.”

  Feeling the blush creep up his neck, Alex fished around for a playful, dismissive rejoinder and drew a blank.

  Tomas laughed and raised his hands, palms out. “Okay, okay, never mind. Here, hand me those.” Alex gave him the chopped vegetables, and Tomas quickly threw together a salad, all innuendo switched off. He chatted about how cooking provided him with an outlet for a stressful job—neurosurgeon, really? Whoa—and
generally treated Alex like a mix between a brother and a personal assistant, until Alex felt like he’d known him all his life.

  When the doorbell rang again, Bengt went to get it, and Alex heard the murmur of several women’s voices, one ringing out clearly above the others. “Move, bro. I’m dying to meet the mystery guy who rendered you useless for the rest of mankind by the sheer power of his memory.”

  Tomas guffawed, and Alex felt the color rise up his neck. He mentally braced himself and was wiping his hands on a towel when a young woman appeared in the doorway. No need to ask who she was. The spitting image of her brother, the same frank blue eyes, the same sandy hair. Freya was only a couple of centimeters shorter than Bengt, athletic and vibrant. Head cocked, she gave Alex the once-over, then nodded. “I have to admit, I get it.”

  Bengt, a step behind her, winked at Alex over her shoulder.

  Waving Alex’s outstretched hand aside, she hugged him hard and whispered in his ear, “He looks happy. Thank you,” leaving him with a warm glow in his stomach.

  Bengt introduced Alex to his mother, who grasped both his forearms in a more formal greeting. Alex could feel her reservations almost physically. He didn’t blame her. She only reflected his own apprehension.

  “I’m honored to meet you . . . señora,” he said when he couldn’t come up with a fitting address in Skanes.

  Neither of the siblings took after her, rawboned and freckled, with graying hair that once might have been strawberry blonde, a resolute chin and quick movements. She looked like a woman who’d fought hard all her life and refused to let it wear her down. But a smile softened her face when she said, “My name is Astrid. Welcome.”

  Alex met her searching gaze, willing to let her see whatever she was looking for. Knowing how much it meant to Bengt, he wanted to win her over, but that would take more than a first hello.

  The last of the newcomers stood eye-level with Alex and held out both arms with a big smile.

  “Svenja, right?” Alex greeted Bengt’s aunt with an answering smile—impossible not to—and let himself be drawn into a warm hug. “Bengt talks about you all the time.”

  She looked a lot younger than her sister, the same angular bone structure, but not pared down by life, her short hair a rich chestnut color. “He’d better say good things only,” she laughed, throwing Bengt a mock-warning look. Her voice was a surprise, deep and resonant. It made Alex want to hear her sing.

  “Only the best,” he said.

  The women had brought cake and pies. Astrid and Svenja took over part of the kitchen, as the doorbell rang again, and again. Eventually Bengt just left the door open as people kept arriving with drinks, chairs and tables, meat for the grill, extra umbrellas for shade. They milled about, chatting and setting things up, and Alex tried his best not to mind letting complete strangers have the run of the place. He could only trust that Bengt knew what he was doing.

  Music and the smell of charcoal filled the air, and, almost unnoticed, the party got underway. Bengt introduced friends and colleagues until Alex didn’t have a chance in hell of remembering all those unfamiliar names, much less matching them up with faces.

  It was an eye-opener to watch Bengt among friends, relaxed and laughing, not turning over every word thrice before opening his mouth—something Alex knew he’d be mulling over for a while. He looked confident and, Freya was right, happy. Alex felt a sudden urge to kick everyone out and drag him upstairs. God, he wanted this, all of it: Bengt, the carefree ease with which everyone was having fun. But all he could do was to clamp down hard on the urge to herd everyone inside and tell them to be quiet.

  He tried to melt into the background using every trick he knew to deflect attention, but, of course, it didn’t work out. Everyone wanted to meet him, talk to him, and stare at him. It was enough to make anyone twitchy. He was glad he’d opted for his old canvas pants and well-worn shirt, flatly refusing the molded black leather pants and fitted gray T-shirt Bengt had bought for him. He felt conspicuous enough as it was, and very aware of all the male bodies in the crowd. Whenever the attention got too much, he fled to the kitchen and Tomas’s friendly despotism.

  The first portions were rolling off the barbecue when Alex heard Bengt say, “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  The man he was talking to looked enough like him to be family. The younger brother? They were the same height, but the other was less massive than Bengt and starting to thicken around the middle.

  “Don’t be an ass,” Halden, if it was him, replied. “We might have different views about Santuario, but I’m not enough of a dick to cut the man you love.”

  Bengt embraced him, caught Alex’s eyes over his brother’s shoulder, and waved him over. Alex braced himself and joined them. Bengt introduced Halden and Sören Holgerson, a slightly older man with thinning hair who turned out to be a colleague of Halden’s, and who seemed unable to take his eyes off Alex.

  Halden was polite, but distant and wary, as if he expected Alex to sprout horns any second. Unlike his friend Sören, who held Alex’s arm for far too long during introductions, and who stood too close. Alex stepped aside to regain some personal space, and Sören gave him a knowing smile. What the fuck? The guy was starting to creep him out.

  Someone tapped Alex on the shoulder. He spun around, barely stopped himself from a fighting crouch, when a guy whose name he’d already forgotten merely handed him a fresh beer. Covering his embarrassment with a smile, he nodded his thanks and raised the bottle in a silent toast, hoping the man would take his overreaction as a joke. It earned him a laugh, and he relaxed a little.

  He’d better eat something soon. But when he turned around, there was Sören again, standing close enough to put his chin on Alex’s shoulder. Really? He had no clue what qualified as off-key in a country where he was expected to hug everyone and their grandmother. Where was the line beyond which he could push back, and what would be considered an over-the-top reaction or downright rude? He decided on evasive action, which had served him well enough up to now, and was turning to leave, when Sören said, “Nice place.”

  Damn. That required an answer, didn’t it? “Sure is.”

  “Not what you’re used to, I take it.”

  Alex tensed. All the signals he got told him this guy was a nasty piece of work, and that whatever he was working himself up to wasn’t good.

  “No, the weather requires quite different architecture on Santuario.” Keep it neutral.

  Again he got that knowing smile, but Sören was prevented from saying anything more by Bengt, who walked over from the barbecue with a plate full of meat and fish skewers, a cob of corn, and some salad.

  “You haven’t eaten anything yet.” He pushed the plate against Alex’s chest. “And Tom has outdone himself with that marinade. You really have to try it.” He put an arm around Alex’s shoulders, kissed him on the temple, and steered him back toward the patio. Alex, stiff between wanting to lean in and needing to keep up appearances, concentrated on walking.

  “If that asshole gives you any trouble,” Bengt whispered, “just say the word, and I’ll tell Halden to take him for a hike and not bring him back.”

  Alex shook his head, wishing Bengt’s public display of affection didn’t make him feel like he had to look over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, when all he wanted to do was lean into him. It was fine. Nobody here gave a shit.

  “Don’t worry.” The last thing he needed was to raise a fuss, and he could fight his own battles. At least Bengt had answered his question of whether he was the only one who found that guy to be off.

  Bengt was called away by his mother, and Alex caught himself scanning the tree line for uniforms. Of course, there was nothing. He was perfectly safe here. What the fuck was wrong with him? Get with the program already.

  He willed his shoulders to relax and leaned against a tree on the edge of the patio. He was trying to enjoy his dinner and his solitude when Svenja walked up to him.

  “Feeling a bit ov
erwhelmed?”

  Alex grinned ruefully at her. “That obvious, huh? I just wish this place had come with a manual and some study time before the big test.” He indicated the crowd with a nod.

  “It must be a huge change. I can’t even imagine.”

  “Funny thing is, I was prepared for having to deal with some big changes. But I find it’s the little things that trip me up. Like, why do some people come with last names and some don’t?”

  “We all have— Oh.” Her puzzled frown dissolved into a smile. “Well, last names are parents’ names. So Halden’s is Bengtson, son of Bengt. And Freya’s is Astriddottir, daughter of Astrid. However, traditionally the firstborn son gets his father’s given name anyway, and the firstborn daughter her mother’s. It makes a last name redundant, which is why it’s dropped out of usage over the centuries. Whenever you meet someone who doesn’t use a last name, you can assume that it would be the same as their given name.”

  Alex’s eyes easily found Bengt, who, even here, stood taller than anyone else. “So Bengt is Bengt Bengtson?”

  “Technically, yes. But you won’t hear anyone say that.” She winked at him. “Except maybe his mother when she’s mad at him.”

  He grinned in wry amusement, eyes still on the group of people milling about the patio. Tall, mostly blond, light-skinned. And everyone constantly touching. Like the cast of a strangely detailed dream. “You must think me quite weird.”

  “Naaaw, just be yourself. You’re doing fine. Everyone likes you.” A wink took the sting out of her next words. “They’re surprised how ‘normal’ you are.”