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- Herausgeber: Decent Fellows Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
True love comes at a cost... After the devastating events in the Scottish Highlands, Sam and Declan have moved on to a new, deeper level in their romance. Their commitment to each other is unquestionable; however, there are plenty of questions that need answering about other aspects of their lives, and those who sought to end them. Sam is trying his best to deal with the day to day frustrations of his injuries. He’s completely dependent on Declan for everything and hates the way the scales have tipped in their relationship. Although he’s officially on leave, Sam’s mind cannot stop replaying all that happened to him and questioning why, and who is behind it all. Declan’s relief at having Sam home throws him into house-husband mode. He’s happy to take the reins and care for his partner, however, beneath the surface Declan cannot help but be drawn back to how he felt in the Highlands, and how they were betrayed by a man who was supposed to have their back. Declan had promised Sir James Aiken that he would pay if he hurt Sam, and now Declan has to decide how he can deliver his payback and put his and Sam’s world back on an even keel.
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Inhaltsverzeichnis
CHAPTER 1
DARKEST DREAMING
CHAPTER 2
LAUREL AND HARDY
CHAPTER 3
THE BOX
CHAPTER 4
SECRETS AND LIES
CHAPTER 5
RAVENWING
CHAPTER 6
RECKONING
CHAPTER 7
TO THE PAIN
CHAPTER 8
WHAT’S DONE
CHAPTER 9
REGRETS
CHAPTER 10
VOWS
CHAPTER 11
FAVOURS
CHAPTER 12
BJÖRN AGAIN
CHAPTER 13
DISCLOSURE
CHAPTER 14
THE SET-UP
CHAPTER 15
BRIGHTNAIL
CHAPTER 16
THE VISITOR
CHAPTER 17
HIGH TEA
CHAPTER 18
THE PRESTIGE
CHAPTER 19
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
CHAPTER 20
INTEL
CHAPTER 21
CIPHER
COUNTERBLOW
SHATTERPROOF BOND #4
Isobel Starling
WWW.DECENTFELLOWSPRESS.COM
Copyright © 2017-2023 Isobel Starling
Second Edition
ISBN: 9783757947255
All rights reserved worldwide. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the Author, except for the purposes of reviews. The reviewer may quote brief passages for the review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The mention of or reference to any companies, products or film reference to ”The Princess Bride”(1987) and the book of the same name by William Goldman in these pages is not a challenge to the trademarks or copyrights.
#NOAI
Counterblow, Copyright © 2017-2023 Isobel Starling
Cover Art Design by Isobel Starling
To my family, for their love and support
The story so far…
After the devastating events in the Scottish Highlands, Sam and Declan have moved on to a new, deeper level in their romance. Their commitment to each other is unquestionable; however, there are plenty of questions that need answering about other aspects of their lives, and those who sought to end them.
Sam is trying his best to deal with the day to day frustrations of his injuries. He’s completely dependent on Declan for everything and hates the way the scales have tipped in their relationship. Although he’s officially on leave, Sam’s mind cannot stop replaying all that happened to him and questioning why, and who is behind it all.
Declan’s relief at having Sam home throws him into house-husband mode. He’s happy to take the reins and care for his partner, however, beneath the surface Declan cannot help but be drawn back to how he felt in the Highlands, and how they were betrayed by a man who was supposed to have their back. Declan had promised Sir James Aiken that he would pay if he hurt Sam, and now Declan has to decide how he can deliver his payback and put his and Sam’s world back on an even keel.
Fezzik: We face each other as God intended. Sportsmanlike. No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone.
Man in Black: You mean, you’ll put down your rock, and I’ll put down my sword, and we’ll try and kill each other like civilized people?
‘The Princess Bride’ by William Goldman
CHAPTER 1
DARKEST DREAMING
Sam Aiken’s eyes flickered open to see only pitch darkness. A wave of stone cold dread washed over him. He closed his eyes again, opened them, and then blinked rapidly, hearing the flutter of his long lashes against his cheek as he did so.
“Uh, hello? I can’t… err… see anything.” he said, his voice high-pitched and quivering with alarm. Sam felt disembodied, bewildered, and frightened. The frigid air smelled damp and earthy. A familiar sound met his ears. He pondered for a moment trying to place it. Yes, it was a matchstick being drawn along a striker, once, twice and then Sam saw a kindling spark erupt into flame. The matchstick appeared to be several meters away and only gave enough light to make visible the hand that held it.
“Ah, Samuel you are awake at last. This is good, yesh?” The voice echoed eerily, coming at him from all sides and it reverberated as if spoken in a cavernous chamber. A sudden rush of adrenaline filtered into Sam’s blood and his heart cantered with terror. He knew that voice, the lyrical Swedish lilt, and the pronunciation of “yesh” instead of “yes” that was so very individual. It was a voice that always struck fear at the core of him. Sam’s eyes frantically searched. He needed another point of reference, but there was nothing, except for the match-light that hypnotically stole his attention—and its owner, who appeared to be approaching. It was just him, a rapidly burning match, and Erik Madsson.
“NOH!” Sam cried out in panic, and then he opened his eyes again.
****
Sam gasped anxiously, inhaling air now scented with spicy cologne and masculine sleep musk. He’d returned to an awareness of his body—his sweating, trembling, aching body. He felt much too clammy under the goose down duvet. His right arm was unusually heavy, as was his left leg. Sam tried to move the leg and felt a flash of pain run up the leg to his spine. Reality came to him in a rush, like he’d had his head underwater and just breached the surface. His limbs were injured, held together with pins and plaster casts. Yesh… yes.
“Hey, y’alright?”
This voice was different—gruff, sleepy, and Scottish. Home. A warm, broad hand snuck across Sam’s bare chest and rested over his heart, which fluttered frantically like a moth desperate to escape its entrapment in a jar.
“S’okay, yer safe, I got ye.”
Tears leaped to Sam’s eyes as they adjusted to the half-light of his and Declan’s bedroom. He took deep shuddering breaths, and focused on the weight of that big warm hand on his chest, anchoring him to the bed. This confusing occurrence had become all too familiar. Sam turned his head, and in the muted dawn light leaking from the sides of the drapes, he saw Declan’s outline. Declan lay on his side, his face just an inch away from Sam’s shoulder, his exhaled warm breath grazing over Sam’s skin. Declan’s other hand lay under his bearded cheek on the pillow, his eyes remained closed.
“Sorry for waking you again. Was I shouting?” Sam’s voice came as a sleepy rasp and was edged with frustration “D’ya not think it would be better if I slept in the spare room? You haven’t had a full night’s sleep in…”
“DON’T,” Declan interjected sternly. Sam asked the same question nearly every time he awoke from a nightmare, his hair sweated to his brow, and his body trembling in fear. Declan could only guess what horrors made his fiancé cry out and struggle in the night. There was no way he would feel comfortable to let Sam wake alone in that state, and he wouldn’t even consider the thought of Sam sleeping elsewhere these days. So each night Declan would shut that suggestion down as soon as the words left Sam’s lips.
Declan smoothed his warm hand down to drape possessively over Sam’s left hip, “Ye can keep askin’ but I’m no’ budgin’, yer goin’ nowhere Sonny, comprendo?” Declan said and then leaned in and brushed his bearded chin over the apex of Sam’s shoulder and laid a kiss.
Sam shook his head. “I don’t deserve you,” He said under his breath.
“Ah’way an’ shite, I’ll no’ hear that rubbish. We all get what we deserve in the end.” He said sagely “D’ye want some help te get back te sleep?”
“Oh, God. No more pills please, or I’ll start to rattle.” Sam didn’t know what was worse, the pain from the injuries or the side effects of all the meds he had to take. Declan exhaled a chuckle from deep in his chest, rolled away and left the bed. Sam watched his bulky silhouette move across the bedroom to the bathroom and then heard the sound of pissing. A minute or so later Declan returned and slid back into the warm spot he had vacated moments earlier. He pulled the duvet off Sam and rose to his knees.
“Close yer eyes, this’ll help ye sleep,” He reassured.
Sam did as instructed and then he smiled as Declan’s searching mouth sprinkled kissed up his chest and met his lips. Declan grinned in the kiss and then pulled away. Sam heard the snap of a flip topped bottle and then the snick, snick sound of Declan rubbing his hands together. Sam smirked; this was the old Declan, whose relaxation default was always sex. Then, the scent of Lavender hit Sam’s nostrils. Lavender? This was not what Sam had expected at hearing that sound of slicked hands.
Declan straddled Sam’s hips and laid his warm oiled hands on Sam’s chest and then pensively moved them up and down in long, slow strokes. The touches were comforting, and sensual. Sam was disarmed at the tenderness in the caresses, and his breath left his body in a pleasing purr. Declan’s capable hands stroked lazily and rhythmically up and down Sam’s chest, avoiding the strapping that held his right shoulder together. The strokes reminded Sam of a professional massage. He’d had no idea Declan hid these kinds of massage techniques up his sleeve. “Oh yessss” he sighed “That feels good.”
Declan’s fingertips played in circles around Sam’s nipples, and Sam felt that unmistakable dart of electricity spark down to his balls. “Ohhh Buttercup…” he breathed, feeling his cock twitch in his underwear. Sam opened his eyes and stared, searching in the dawn half-light for Declan’s face. His lover’s silhouette was outlined in silver, and he glowed like a religious icon. It was beautiful, and the slow sensual movements of Declan’s hand on his skin made Sam feel relaxed and safe. A rush of memories and feelings flooded Sam’s mind. The intimacy, care, and loyalty Declan had shown him since the injuries made tears prickle his eyes. This was love, this wordless magnetic, healing connection. The power of it was nearly overwhelming, and Sam was glad they were in the dark so that Declan wouldn’t see him cry -- again.
“Touch me, please,” Sam begged, needing his cock to be stroked to sidetrack his mind from the wave of emotion.
“That’s no’ what this is about. Massage doesnae always lead te sex, y’know.”
A half-sobbing laugh escaped Sam’s mouth.
“What?” Declan sounded affronted.
“Come on; you must have had happy endings after massages?” Sam teased.
“Oh no. Do ye have any idea how intimidating it is fer a wee girl, being stuck in a treatment room wi’ a client wi’ a hard-on? One o’ my ex-girlfriends was a massage therapist. She used te tell me stories about clients getting hard during therapy. She would make the client roll on te their belly, but then some o’ the dirty bastarts would start humping the fuckin’ table.”
“Oh my God!” Sam snickered. “What did she do?”
“Female therapists are advised te leave the room if a client gets too full-on an’ makes them feel uncomfortable.”
“Does that mean I don’t get my happy ending?” Sam said petulantly.
Declan let out a wry chuckle and shook his head. He knew that if they were in full daylight, Sam would be pouting and staring at him with those mesmerizing green eyes, willing him to surrender. He could nearly see it. Declan leaned down, searched for, and found Sam’s mouth. He laid a kiss upon his sleep engorged lips.
“If I give ye a tug, will ye go back te sleep?”
“Mmmm.”
That sensual purr always left Declan undone. “You are incorrigible Samuel Aiken.”
****
CHAPTER 2
LAUREL AND HARDY
Declan turned the car engine off and glanced up into the rearview mirror, his face etched with concern. Sam was laid out on the back seat looking distant and completely miserable. His seat belt was wrapped awkwardly across his chest, under his injured right arm, a black sling keeping his shoulder in place and supporting his broken, cast wrist. Sam’s pinned left leg was secured in a large blue boot brace, propped on the seat at an awkward angle.
“Are ye ready, darlin’?” Declan inquired, his eyes seeking Sam’s in the mirror.
“Sooner I get this over with, the better, I suppose,” Sam murmured with a tired sigh of resignation. Sam had only been out of the hospital for ten days, and after his initial bubble of euphoria at being home with Declan had popped, he was bewildered by his injuries and the effect they had on his once pliant and supple body. The rehabilitation process was daunting, and Sam knew he would have to dig deep to get back to his former physical prowess. But his mind, now, that was a different matter. He felt sluggishly tired and useless, and there was way too much empty time to think about everything. Sam had so many questions about the why’s of what happened in the Highlands. Who loves or hates James so much that they would try to murder me to get his attention?
Declan clicked his fingers and Sam shuddered back to awareness to hear Declan say, “Aye. The sooner yer leg’s healed, the sooner I can take ye up the aisle, right?”
Declan had expected Sam to respond with a saucy remark, but it never came.
Sam’s one request on accepting Declan’s marriage proposal was that they would wait until he could walk unaided again. He’d said he didn’t want wedding photos to feature his braced leg, crutch, sling, and with them, the memories of how he’d received his injuries. They were memories Sam would rather bury in a dark, dark place.
Declan grabbed his phone from the holder on the dash, glanced at the mirror again and saw Sam’s mouth twitch, moving from his detached frown to a smirk, as if at last the double entendre had registered. Their eyes met in reflection, and they held each other’s gaze for a long moment before Sam said,
“We’ve still got our suit fittings at Gieves and Hawk this afternoon, yeah?” He shifted, winced, and carefully unbuckled the seat belt, controlling the speed at which it retreated into its holster, so it didn’t catch on his sling.
“Aye, five-thirty, I’ve arranged it, so we have the place te ourselves.” Dressed casually, Declan slid his phone into a pocket in his sweatpants, opened his door, and stepped out of the black Range Rover. The early May morning was overcast and gray, typical British spring weather. He glanced warily at the terrace of Georgian buildings opposite, and at the cars parked either side of his vehicle, then looked up and down the street. There was no one else around; in fact, Harley Street was strangely deserted.
The RE: Kinektic Clinic was the best rehabilitation clinic that money could buy in London, and of course James would be footing the bill. The clickety-clack of an overground Tube train crossing the nearby railway bridge caught Declan’s attention for a moment as he opened the rear passenger door where Sam sat. He reached in, pulled Sam’s crutch out and leaned it against the side of the car, and then ducked his head back inside the vehicle. Sam threaded his good arm over Declan’s brawny muscled shoulder, and together they eased him out of the car. When Sam was standing, his weight on his good leg and his ass resting against the cold metal of the car, Declan closed the door and handed Sam his crutch.
“God, I hate this thing, I feel like a bloody pirate,” Sam barked, uncharacteristically sharply, and then guiltily said “Sorry… I…”
Declan looked pensively at Sam, “Shall I get ye a wee parrot and an eye patch te complete the look?” He joked, but Sam didn’t laugh, he just glared murderously at him. “Hey, we’ll soon see ye right.” Declan gentled and then absently caressed Sam’s cheek with the back of his fingers.
Declan’s tender touch brought Sam back to focus on his partner. He met Declan’s concerned gaze and felt a flush of guilt that it was his fault Declan was off work too and he had the mind-numbing chore of looking after him. Declan had been so kind, patient, and understanding—verging on saintly. He never complained once that he had something else to do, something more important. Sam was the priority, and he felt humbled that Declan always thought of his needs before his own. Declan wasn’t even getting laid these days. I really have to make it up to him when I’m better, Sam promised himself, he really could not believe how lucky he was to have such an unselfish fiancé.
Sam pushed off the side of the car and leaned his weight against Declan’s brawny frame. He wanted to kiss him and say thank you, again and again, but they were in public, and standing up had him feeling light-headed. God, even the simplest of tasks takes the wind out of me these days. The cocktail of medication Sam was on —blood thinners and narcotic painkillers, took away the physical pain, however, they also dulled his edges and took away some things that were intrinsically Sam—his humor, his child-like motivation to be doing something—anything active, and, most importantly, his positive attitude. No matter what he’d faced before the Highlands, somehow he’d regained his positive outlook, but this time, Sam’s mind was numb. This Sam Aiken was in some kind of fugue state, running on autopilot most of the time, just trying to keep his threads together so Declan wouldn’t worry so much.
Sam’s memories of the Highlands had been muddy at first, but they came to him in dreams and daytime flashbacks that would make his gut twist with anxiety. The worst of the memories were not of his personal pain at being suspended like a puppet over the sinkhole. The worst thing was the mental pain of his powerlessness, and watching Declan, a dedicated control freak, become unmanned and fall to pieces at his own emasculation. And so, to give his partner back some semblance of control while he was recovering, Sam decided to give Declan his power and let him take the reins. Sam never made demands and rarely made suggestions about how he wanted to spend his days recuperating. Declan decided everything. And so, with Declan’s military routine, it was a monotonous cycle of sleep, food, books, and movies that he barely remembered watching to pass the time.
There was one thing that Sam rejected, though. Declan suggested renting a wheelchair so he could take him round Hyde Park to get some fresh air. But Sam had been horrified. A wheelchair was a step too far. Using a wheelchair was admitting his complete incapacitation, and that was one submission he was unwilling to entertain. Sam laid his head on Declan’s shoulder. “Sei la luce della mia vita.” (You are the light of my life.) he whispered softly.
Declan steadied his partner. He was getting pretty damn good at Italian,“La mia luce brilla solo per te.” (My light shines only for you.) he uttered in reply, knowing to his bones the statement was true. They stood leaning against one another on the empty London street for a long moment as if enclosed in an impenetrable bubble of intimacy.
On hearing a noise, Declan turned to look up at the glass entrance doorway of the clinic. A male nurse clad in a pastel blue uniform exited through the automatic double doors and stood on the top step with… a wheelchair. Shite! Declan winced, knowing the chair would make Sam uncomfortable, but it had to be done.
“I can bloody well walk into the clinic.” Sam insisted stubbornly.
“Bollocks ye can, ye know ye can’t support yer left leg,” Declan retorted. Declan knew Sam didn’t have the energy to fight him. He put his arm around Sam’s waist, and Sam leaned on his crutch. They moved in a slow, hobbling gait towards the nurse, who was now wheeling the chair down a ramp beside the steps.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Hardy,” The nurse said, his North American accent smooth and friendly. “How ya feeling today?”
Sam gave the nurse a withering glare and bit his lip to prevent his retort of “How the bloody hell do you think I’m feeling?” being said in response. He hissed in pain and grimaced as Declan helped lower him into the wheelchair. Sam was sick and tired of people asking him how he felt. He looked like shit and felt like shit, but his British sense of decorum made him automatically say “Fine,” to everyone. But Sam wasn’t fine, he wasn’t fine at all. This was his first post-op consultation at the rehabilitation clinic, the first painful step towards reclaiming and harnessing his body again. He needed this and dreaded it in equal measure.
“Are ye sure ye don’t want me to stick around?” Declan inquired.
“Stop babying me for Christ’s sake; I’ll be fine, honest.” Sam snapped and then said “Sorry, sorry. I’m just…” The nurse sent a look of discomfort to Declan.
“Hey, no bother. I’ll be back te get ye in three hours, yeah.” Declan laid his hand on Sam’s uninjured shoulder and squeezed. Sam met Declan’s grey eyes and sent him a look that communicated more than he could say there out on the street. Sorry, thank you, I appreciate all you do, I love you. Declan nodded in understanding, and then the nurse wheeled Sam away.
When Sam had been pushed through the glass sliding doors and into the clinic, Declan’s expression took on a cold, steely look, as if all of the gentle concern drained away and someone else inhabited his shell now. He turned, narrowed his eyes, looked left and glared down Harley Street, then gave the nod. The sound of a car door slamming made pigeons on an adjacent rooftop take flight. A bulky, dark-suited figure got out of a black Range Rover two hundred meters from where Declan had parked and began to stroll towards Declan. The man-mountain that was Agent Brody ate up the space between him and Declan, taking less than a minute to be standing facing the Scotsman. Declan offered his hand, and the agent took it, his face expressionless as he gave it a shake.
“How’s our boy doin’?” The American agent asked his voice deep and serious. Declan retrieved his hand, which ached from Brody’s firm handshake, and met the man’s cautious, dark-eyed gaze.
“He’s no’ great, te be honest,”
“It’s gonna take time. He’s getting the best medical care, and I’ve got eyes on him 24/7.” Since assisting in the recovery of Sam and Declan from the sinkhole in Scotland, Agent Devon Brody had become very protective of Sam, making it clear that he did not appreciate the way his boss had let down his son. Brody was a team player and he was trained to operate as part of a unit. James dropped the ball and Sam paid the price. And so Agent Brody had offered to do the surveillance detail when Declan wasn’t around to keep tabs on his partner.
Declan was weighed down with questions and worries, and he hadn’t had any ‘me’ time for weeks. He needed to find some kind of release for his stress because he certainly wasn’t getting it from sex these days. Sam’s body was broken, and so Declan and his fleshlight had regretfully, become reacquainted.
The thought of Brody shadowing Sam was comforting to Declan; after all, Brody was an excellent agent, shrewd, intelligent and built like a brick wall. James had Erik Madsson in custody, but apparently, they still were none the wiser as to who was actually behind Madsson’s super-villain programming, or why. So, it was better to be safe than sorry.
“I’ll be back in around three hours. If anyone asks you’re bodyguard for Aidan Hardy, okay?” Declan said. Brody nodded, turned, and leaped up the steps to the clinic entrance.
As soon as Brody was out of sight, Declan headed back to the Range Rover, but he did not get in. Instead, he went to the rear of the vehicle, opened the boot, and retrieved a small rucksack. He secured the car and added his phone, wallet, and keys to the rucksack then slung it over his back. Declan then zipped up his black Nike Windrunner Hoodie, glanced at his watch, and then took off at a slow jog.
At the first junction, Declan turned onto Weymouth Street and continued past rows of Georgian townhouses with black ironwork balconies and tall sash windows—private homes for the wealthy or embassies with the official country flags flapping in the breeze. Declan stopped at a zebra crossing and crossed over to Moxton Street past the Marylebone pub, then continued his jog down a side road, which terminated at black railings surrounding Paddington Street Gardens. He took a right turn and ran up a narrow side street on the perimeter of the park until he found an entrance gate and then continued his run down the tarmac path that bisected the gardens. Declan felt good to be on the move, his heart pumping, and his pulse racing once more. On the opposite side of the park, Declan turned onto Crawford Road, and now that he was back on open streets he increased his speed.
After fifteen more minutes Declan turned a corner and crossed over the canal bridge near Paddington Station, and then took a left onto Sheldon Square. He paused to catch his breath outside the P.K.M Center and then sauntered in.
“Dan Laurel, I have a private class with Viktor Petrov,” Declan said to the metrosexual, sporty, young black man on reception.
“Oh right, ‘ang on mate,” He said in a thick East End accent. The kid, whose name badge stated that he was Daryl Chapman, checked through the bookings list, and then said “Room six, straight dahhn ne’ ‘awl, third door on yer left.” Declan nodded and took off down the squeaky linoleum hallway.
Declan knocked on door six and then entered the square gym room where his one-to-one Krav Maga sessions would take place.
