Chapter 9
Sander
The Defender’s heater is running at full blast, and Sander curls up in the passenger seat, his muscles finally relaxing. The farm and the lake are no longer visible between the trees, and it feels as if a lead weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
He fishes his mobile from his pocket, grateful that Niillas was quick-witted enough to retrieve it from the upper floor when he got Sander.
Because Sander isn’t sure if he’d have the guts to go up there even in broad daylight.
He checks the display. Still no reception.
When they take another turn, the forest clears around them, and the display lights up.
“Oh shit. Seven missed calls from Jonas, and almost as many texts from Emma.” He scrolls rapidly. “They’re really worried.”
Niillas chuckles.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Yes. No. Kinda?”
In the warmth of the car, with the sunlight filtering through the tall trees and with Niillas’ calming presence by his side, it feels almost ridiculous that they’d worried.
Because in the world of ordinary people like Sander, a farmhouse isn’t a place where you can get lost and eaten by a troll, no matter how spooky and abandoned it might seem.
“Do you think I should call Jonas?”
Niillas hums his approval.
“Why don’t you tell him we got super cold and that you almost crashed through some floorboards while exploring, but that we stayed until dawn?”
Sander exhales a deep breath of relief because Niillas seems to know exactly what he needs. The reassurance. The shared story, so Sander wouldn’t trip over his words trying to explain what happened. Because, for all his charm, he’s a terrible liar.
“Yeah, sounds good,” Sander mumbles, already dialing Jonas’ number. “Thanks.”
Niillas lets go of the stick and puts a grounding hand on Sander’s thigh instead.
The call connects after the first ring, and Sander hurriedly puts Jonas on speaker.
“Sander! Thank god! Are you okay? We were about to call the police—”
“We’re fine,” Sander interrupts quickly. “Really. It’s just… that there was no signal at the farm—”
“We were sick with worry, you idiots,” Emma cuts in, anger and relief evident in her strained voice. “How’s Niillas?”
“I’m good,” Niillas says. “Currently driving.”
“We’re going to have breakfast at my place.”
Jonas whistles. “Good for you guys!”
“Were you okay during the night?” Emma asks. “Henrik admitted later that the house is in worse shape than he told you.”
“The fucker will have to give his best during practice until the New Year, or I swear I’ll kill him personally,” Sander growls.
“Yeah, but we stayed the whole night,” Niillas adds. “It was fucking cold, and Sander broke through some rotten floorboards when we went upstairs to investigate a little, so we spent the night by the fire.”
“Keeping each other warm, I hope,” Jonas says teasingly. “But seriously, Henrik is such an ass.”
“We acquired a ghost dog, too,” Sander says, relieved that their story seems to satisfy Jonas and Emma.
“What?”
“A Finnish spitz,” Niillas explains. “A stray would be my best guess. No collar or tag, but we’ll have him checked to see if he might be micro-chipped.”
They share a look, both knowing that isn’t the case.
“He’s such a cutie. We’re calling him Karo.”
At the mention of his name, Karo yawns and wags his tail.
“Karo? Oh my god, you’re so old-school, Sander.”
Jonas laughs.
“Still, this dare was incredibly stupid. I’m just glad that nothing happened to you.”
Sander has a feeling that Emma is going to have words with Henrik. God knows, the fucker deserves her wrath.
“Agreed,” Sander says, maybe a little more cheerfully than he actually feels. “But Niillas looked out for me, and we won the bet. So Henrik owes the defense his full dedication.”
“I’ll make sure he gives it,” Emma says darkly, and Jonas laughs harder.
“Can’t wait to see his face when you collect. Drive safe, okay?”
“Will do.”
Sander ends the call and slumps in his seat. He covers Niillas’ hand with his.
“Thank you.”
“Huh?”
“For coming with me. For having my back. For helping me deal with the aftermath of this whole shitshow.”
Niillas smiles and kisses his hand again, the gesture making crazy butterflies dance in Sander’s stomach.
“Always.”
They buy enough kanelboller and sm?rbr?d for six people in the little breakfast café in Strandgata, and Karo barks excitedly as they return, his little black nose pressed against the window. The smell of cinnamon buns and fresh bread fills the car, and their new dog is already begging for treats.
“Don’t even think about feeding him the salmon sandwich,” Niillas says, a sly gleam in his eye.
He’s so goddamn sexy. Sander can barely believe his luck. He feeds Karo some crumbs on their way to his apartment anyway, but keeps his hands off Niillas’ sandwiches. He supposes Niillas’ bear has a taste for salmon, and though the thought should be disturbing, it feels endearing instead.
When Niillas parks in front of the townhouse—a blue wood house a tad too nice for a student—Sander feels his self-consciousness creeping back in. Karo trots happily at their heels as they climb the stairs, and Sander fumbles with his keys for a moment before getting the door open.
“Come to the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.”
Niillas takes in Sander’s furniture, the bookshelves lining the small living room, and the too-fancy coffee machine, a birthday present from his aunt.
“Nice place,” Niillas says. “It smells like you.”
“What?”
A pink hue spreads across Niillas’ high cheekbones. Is he blushing?
“It smells like you. Cinnamon and blood orange. Incredibly nice.”
“You like how I smell?”
With a low growl, Niillas is on him, crowding Sander against the frame of the kitchen door and burying his nose against Sander’s neck.
“To say I like it is an understatement. I could spend weeks wrapped around you, just soaking up your scent.”
“Oh god,” Sander moans, going boneless in Niillas’ embrace. “We could—we could take a shower until the coffee is ready.”
“You haven’t even started the coffee yet,” Niillas teases, but keeps nibbling at Sander’s neck, driving him slowly insane.
“You could join me,” Sander mumbles, reaching for the coffee machine to start grinding the beans, but getting sidetracked by Niillas biting down gently on the soft spot where neck meets shoulder. “More…eco-friendly.”
“Environmental consciousness,” Niillas rumbles. “I admire that.”
And Sander realizes he needs to get Niillas naked far more urgently than he needs food or coffee right now.
“Shut up and follow me.”
He slips from Niillas’ embrace, grabbing his hand, and pulling him toward the bathroom. To Sander’s relief, Niillas follows willingly, eyes gleaming with delight, and a darker promise that Sander will pay for his boldness later in the most delicious ways.
The bathroom is small but modern, and Sander turns on the spray before he can lose his nerve, fumbling to adjust the temperature.
When he turns around, Niillas is already taking off his clothes, and Sander’s breath catches in his throat, because Niillas is a work of art—not gym-toned abs, but powerfully built lines and strength that testify to real physical work and genuine skills on the ice.
“See something you like?”
“God, you’re beautiful.”
Clumsy with need, Sander pulls off the borrowed hoodie and his shirt, feeling slightly inadequate next to Niillas perfection. But he won’t let his awkwardness ruin this; he desires Niillas too much.
He shrugs out of his jeans and underwear next, but when he reaches for the collar with the pentagram, Niillas catches his hand.
“Can you—can you keep it on?”
Sander feels himself blushing, flustered, but turned on at the same time.
“I look silly.”
“You look sexy,” Niillas rumbles, pulling him towards the shower. “You wear this slutty little thing like you’re the prince of hell.”
“Slutty?” Sander splutters, even though he’s more aroused than ever before, and Niillas bites Sander’s neck right next to the collar, which somehow intensifies the sensation.
“Keep it on for me?”
Niillas licks the abused skin, where his teeth nibbled only moments before, and Sander has to lock his knees to stay upright.
“Okay,” he breathes, allowing Niillas to guide him backward into the walk-in shower.
Sander has never been more grateful for modern amenities.
The water is blissfully hot after the coldness of the night, and he tilts his head back with a sigh of pure pleasure, closing his eyes for a moment, and just savoring the feeling of Niillas’ hands on his shoulders and around his waist. Niillas crowds him against the wall, lips on Sander’s neck, kissing, biting, nibbling, and oh—
Sander’s hips stutter forward. How can Niillas biting him feel so nice?
Niillas rumbles a contented sound deep in his chest that makes Sander think of the bear hiding under the surface of this human body, of the claws that tore thick floorboards to shreds.
And maybe Sander is a bit of an adrenaline junkie because the thought does funny things to his libido, and he moans.
Niillas’ touch is addictive, and Sander is torn between the urge to press back into the hands cupping his ass or forward to soak in more of his body heat. As if he senses Sander’s indecisiveness, Niillas pulls him even closer.
An undignified hmmpf slips from Sander’s lips as his hard cock gets trapped against Niillas’ thigh.
Water runs between them, making everything slick and heated, and Sander melts against Niillas with a soft sound of surrender.
“Are you okay?” Niillas murmurs against his neck.
“I’m good. Don’t you dare stop now!”
“Tell me what you want, then.”
Sander swallows hard. He’s so used to being the one who takes charge, the one who initiates, the one who keeps things light and easy. But with Niillas, he wants to let go, wants to see where it leads him if he leaves the reins to Niillas.
“I—” he manages. “I want to let you—”
“Let me what?”