Chapter 4
Niillas
He can still feel it. The presence in the shadows outside, still lurking, still waiting.
Its wrongness is palpable in the October air, making Niillas’ survival instincts tingle with awareness.
His muscles coil tight, hands clenching the armrest until the wood creaks in protest. But Sander sits just inches away, completely unaware of the danger they’re in.
Fuck.
Niillas’ nostrils flare as another scent hits him. Something inside the house this time. Old despair that clings to the walls like smoke, patient and hungry.
What is this place?
He forces his breathing to steady, unclenches his fists before he leaves treacherous marks in the wood.
Sander glares at him. He’d yielded to Niillas’ commands so far, his submission sending an inappropriate thrill through Niillas’ veins, but now he can practically see Sander pulling himself together.
“Will you relax?” Sander snaps. “It was probably just a moose or something.”
But Niillas can hear the slight tremor underneath Sander’s bravado, smell the spike of adrenaline he’s trying to hide.
“You know it wasn’t a moose. And it would be wise to be afraid.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Sander goes rigid, his blue eyes flashing with fury and fear.
“Stupid pretty boy doesn’t know real danger when he sees it, is that what you’re saying?”
Heat crawls up Niillas’ neck. He wasn’t calling Sander stupid, but explaining what he was really trying to say would require breaching topics Sander can’t know about.
Like how the creature outside has claws that could gut a man in seconds.
Like how something upstairs is drawn by Sander’s growing unease, pressing closer with every second.
“That’s not—” Niillas tries, although he has no idea what he could say to placate Sander.
“No, I get it.” Sander pushes to his feet, pulling Niillas’ flannel shirt tighter around himself. “This is all some elaborate joke, isn’t it? Get the spoiled captain out to a creepy house, make him jump at shadows, watch him humiliate himself. Maybe take some pictures for the team group chat?”
“You think I’m pranking you?” The idea is so ridiculous that Niillas almost laughs. “With what, hired actors in the woods? Special effects?”
“But you don’t need actors, do you? Are your guys from defense in on this? Henrik? Lars?”
“What?”
“Come on, Vars. You show up with professional camping gear like you planned this. Henrik brings this farm up, and you know conveniently where to find it.” Sander’s breath comes faster, visible puffs in the cold air.
“You orchestrate the whole thing, sit back, and watch me make a fool of myself. Well, congratulations, you got what you wanted.”
The accusation makes Niillas bare his teeth. Only minutes ago, Sander was sitting by the fire, wearing Niillas’ flannel and listening to his words.
“You think I attended this silly party to play some fucking mind games?” Niillas still can’t fathom where this whole conversation went wrong. “You think I’ve agreed to this dare for Henrik’s entertainment?”
“I don’t know what to think!” Sander gestures sharply, making his shirt ride up, and a sliver of skin flashes at his hip that steals Niillas’ breath, no matter the circumstances. “All I know is you’re acting like you know something I don’t, and I’m sick of being treated like an idiot.”
The footsteps above them resume, deliberate and heavy. Something drags across the ceiling with a sound like fingernails on wood.
Sander’s eyes snap upward, and for a moment his mask slips entirely. Niillas sees raw fear flicker across his features, quickly smothered by stubborn pride.
“Fine,” Sander says, voice pitched higher than usual. “You want to sit here playing mysterious? I’ll go upstairs and give Henrik a piece of my mind.”
He strides toward the door before Niillas can protest.
“Don’t.” Niillas is on his feet instantly, moving to block Sander’s path. “Whatever’s up there—”
“Oh, spare me.” Sander sidesteps him with the flowing grace he normally uses on the ice rink, already reaching for the chair barricading the door. “I swear if I find Henrik and Lars up there, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out and scare me, I’m going to kill them.”
Panic floods Niillas’ veins. The scent from outside is growing stronger, seeping through the broken windows like fog. And upstairs, something that definitely isn’t Henrik shifts across the floorboards with predatory patience.
“Sander, no.”
But Sander has already pulled the chair away and wrapped his fingers around the door handle.
The defiant tilt of his chin, the way the firelight catches in his light strands and makes them take on a fiery red hue, is intoxicating.
Even terrified and furious, he’s beautiful.
Beautiful and utterly reckless and probably about to get himself seriously hurt.
“You don’t give me orders,” Sander spits. “I’m the captain, remember?”
The door swings open with an ominous groan, and Sander disappears into the dark hallway before Niillas can decide if he’s ready to resort to physical force to hold Sander back. His footsteps echo from the old walls, quick and determined.
“Sander!” Niillas lunges after him, but something slams the door shut between them with enough force to rattle the entire frame.
Fuck.
The handle won’t turn, and the door groans as Niillas throws his weight against it. But the old wooden door holds fast as if sealed by more than just a stuck lock.
From upstairs carries the sound of Sander’s voice, muffled but audible: “Henrik? Very funny, you asshole. Come out and—”
His words cut off abruptly, and Niillas’ blood turns to ice. He takes a quick glance at his watch. Midnight is approaching. The witching hour, when the veil grows thinnest and old hungers wake.
The house settles around him with a satisfied sigh, as if it’s been waiting for this moment. Waiting to separate them.
Fuckfuckfuck.
Niillas steps back, bracing himself. His bones itch with the need to shed his skin, to become something large enough and strong enough to tear this cursed place apart board by board if that’s what it takes to reach Sander.
But first, he has to get through the door.
And then he needs to find Sander.
Whatever the cost.
Whatever Sander might think of him.