It was barely dawn when Jamie rocked back up to Marc’s house to find his ridiculous yellow car absent from the driveway. Relief and disappointment warred in Jamie’s conflicted heart, but he settled on relief. Kissing Marc, and feeling so fucking safe in his arms, had kept Jamie up most of the night, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face that again so soon.

He couldn’t deny that he missed Marc, though. The big old house seemed imposing now Marc wasn’t inside, warming it with his kind eyes and dry smile. And where the hell was the key? Suddenly, Jamie’s swift exit the night before didn’t seem like such a good idea, though it had been necessary on his part. Talking about his fucked-up life was usually enough to keep him celibate, but Marc had changed all that. Jamie wanted him, and that was fast becoming the toughest urge to ignore.

Common sense drew Jamie to the gas cupboard a few feet from the heavy front door. Sure enough, the key was hidden behind the metre. Jamie retrieved it, his mind still on the hotter side of his newfound friendship, and drifted back to the front door, absently jamming the key into the tarnished lock. Kissing Marc had to be up there among the craziest things he’d ever done, and not just because he’d sworn himself off men since he’d been clean. No. Kissing Marc was crazy because he’d done it over and over now, and had become more than a little addicted to the insane pleasure it brought to every fucking facet of his body. I swear I could come from just kissing him.

And that kind of thrill was dangerous. Always had been. Because anything that crazy-good got people he cared about hurt. And he cared about Marc. He didn’t know why—’Cause, let’s face it, I hardly know the bloke—but fuck, he cared.

Jamie pushed open the door to the big house. Though he knew Marc was likely at work, he still half expected to find him in the kitchen, drinking coffee at the table. But only the cat was there to greet him, protesting loudly by an empty bowl. Jamie eyed her suspiciously. Marc hadn’t seemed over attached to the tiny, beautiful feline, but he couldn’t believe that he’d have left for the day without feeding her. Jamie fed her anyway, though. Natalie had the air of a creature who wouldn’t tolerate being ignored, and he had stuff to do that wouldn’t go well with an angry cat trying to kill him.

After washing the coffee cup Marc had left in the sink, he made his way upstairs to the library. At some point, he’d have to look in the other rooms to see what awaited him there, but it felt weird to be alone in Marc’s house as it was without poking around in places he hadn’t been shown.

Besides, he liked the library. It smelled like a secondhand bookshop he’d slept outside once—all fusty and warm. He went straight to the radiator and found it kicking out almost as much delicious heat as the AGA downstairs and knew that it was going to be a good day. I like it here. Shame there was one thing missing—the strong, beating heart that made the draughty old house a home, even if Marc didn’t quite believe it himself. He likes it here too.

Perhaps.

Maybe.

Whatever. Marc wasn’t here, and his absence gave Jamie the chance to concentrate on the task at hand, and he spent a blissful day organising a single wall of floor-to-ceiling shelves, all piled high with dusty books. He had a feeling that Marc wouldn’t care if he boxed every book up and chucked them in a skip, but Jamie couldn’t bear that. The books had meant enough to Marc’s mother to keep them, and they deserved a better end than a landfill.

Not like you.

Jamie killed the negative thought before it manifested into the creeping anxiety that often turned into a fit of agitation that only junk or an episode of crazed numerical cleaning could shift. He closed his eyes and pictured, like he always did when he felt like this, Zac on his hands and knees scrubbing Jamie’s mess out of the carpet. Dirt and filth had been Jamie’s constant companions back then, and Zac’s preoccupation with housekeeping had amused Jamie no end. Oh, the irony.

Fuck it. Jamie gave in to an urge he’d been fighting all day and left the library in search of a vacuum cleaner. The trail took him along the landing. He opened every door he came across, discovering two more rooms packed with stuff, until he came to a room at the end, which opened out into a narrow corridor that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Gene Wilder Willy Wonka film. Stooped and jagged, even the door at the end was smaller than the door Jamie had opened.

Curiosity merged with the reborn disquiet in his empty stomach. Jamie wasn’t a fan of cramped spaces, especially dark ones, and he couldn’t see a light switch anywhere, but the hobbit door fascinated and terrified him in equal measure, and despite his misgivings, he found himself edging into the cartoon corridor.

The midget door opened to more darkness. Jamie felt along the wall for a light switch, but no cigar, and an odd pride kept him from turning back. He retrieved the lighter from his box of fags and sparked it to cast a puny orange glow on his surroundings. Jesus, it’s like Narnia in here. He gazed around the spooky hallway—low ceilinged and narrow, the walls and floors were made of stone—and the cold air prickled the back of his neck.

He shivered and rubbed his arm. His parents’ church had felt morbid and suffocating like this, and Jamie’s heart skipped a scraping, painful beat. He hadn’t been inside a house of worship in years, but the chill that came from even thinking about the last time was sickeningly familiar. Fuck this.

Jamie turned on his heel and hurried back the way he’d come. The miniature door he’d passed through was farther away than he’d anticipated, and it was stuck when he reached it. Panic seized Jamie’s throat. He kicked out at the door, stumbling forward as it burst open and smacked loudly against the wall of the strangely stooped corridor.

He dashed to the door that led to the landing. Thankfully, he’d left it open, and he charged through it and slammed it shut behind him, leaning back on it, breathing heavily, conversely overheated and cold to the bone.

“Jesus. You look like you’ve been chased by an axe man.”

Jamie jumped a mile. He’d craved Marc’s presence all day, but for some reason Marc was the last person he’d expected to see standing at the top of the stairs. “You’re not supposed to come up here.”

“Aren’t I?”

“No. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To save you the trouble?”

“To save me the trouble of hoofing boxes up and down, not to leave you stranded to the mercy of whatever’s got you looking like you’ve shat a rocket.”

“What?” Marc was far from posh, but the crude turn of phrase was so unlike anything he’d ever said before that a strangled chuckle escaped Jamie’s tense lungs. “What does that even mean?”

Marc chuckled too and ventured farther onto the landing. “Sorry. It’s something my mate Wedge used to say. Pleasant fucker, he was.”

“Was?”

“Is. Whatever. Far as I know, the bastard’s still alive.”

“He can’t be that much of a bastard if he makes you smile like that.”

“Like what?”

Jamie pushed off the door, glad his shaky legs had steadied out. “You love him like a brother . . . like that other dude you talk about sometimes.”

“Who? Nat?”

“If you say so. I can’t remember his name, just your face when you talk about him.”

They met at the library door. Marc came up close to Jamie . . . so close that Jamie could smell the hospital on him—antiseptic and blood. Blood. Right. Fucking vampire now, are you? The thought reminded him of the crappy teenage vampire novels he’d marked for donation to the nearest charity shop. Lacking any better ideas, he opened the library door and went inside, trusting that Marc would follow.

He did, and he glanced around at Jamie’s first day of work with a low whistle. “Wow. You don’t waste time, eh?”

“Why would I? Got nothing else to do.”

“Except poke around in abandoned corridors. What were you doing in the manor pass?”

“The what?”

Marc stepped to the nearest shelf and hooked a book down without seeming to check what it was. He held it out to Jamie. On the cover was a black-and-white photograph of Marc’s house. “The manor pass used to lead to the old church that was behind the house. It was blocked off when they demolished the church ten years ago.”

“Oh.” Relief escaped Jamie in a wild rush of air. So it was a church, sort of. The knowledge didn’t make the demons using his spine as a maypole any less unpleasant, but it did, at least, explain their enthusiasm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. I was after a hoover.”

“Why?”

“To get rid of some of the dust.”

Marc tilted his head to one side as he withdrew his proffered book and stuck it back on the shelf. “What’s the point when you’ll only kick up more tomorrow? Can’t you leave it?”

Jamie scowled, though his irritation at being doctored was tempered by a long look at Marc’s chest. Marc’s pull-up on the bar in the kitchen last night had been a real eye-opener. Jamie’s heart had told him that Marc was strong, but watching his biceps ripple and pop, alive with the sinuous muscle that came from years of hard work? Along with his lips smashing against Jamie’s, it was an image Jamie couldn’t shake.

He remembered hiding his face against Marc’s chest too—the warmth, the scent, and the lightly furred planes of unyielding flesh. Shame he couldn’t remember what had driven him to seek comfort in Marc’s arms like a whimpering child.

Jamie shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Marc frowned and came closer, his arms opening naturally. Jamie willed himself to step back, to resist the call to fall against Marc and lose himself in the safety of his embrace, but he couldn’t do it. For one reason or another, he needed Marc—his touch, his smile, even the deep rumble of his voice as he muttered something into Jamie’s hair as Jamie sagged against him.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie whispered.

Marc held Jamie close and rubbed his shoulders. “What for? It’s not like I haven’t been wanting to squeeze the life out of you all damn day.”

“Still.” Jamie forced himself to look up from the soothing depths of Marc’s chest. “You must think I’m fucking mental.”

“Not really. You’re just a bit of a contradiction.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Marc dragged the pad of his thumb beneath Jamie’s eyes. “So much chaos and nervous energy, but beneath, you have this calm, methodical cleverness.”

Jamie laughed—real laughter this time, from a part of him he barely recognised. “I ain’t clever.”

“Yes, you are. And don’t argue with me. Humour me until you get round to believing it yourself.”

Jamie grumbled but let it go. Marc would see for himself soon enough what a bellend he could be. “What time is it?”

“A little after eight.”

“Eight o’clock? Seriously? You’ve been at work for hours.”

“Says you. Mrs. Valentino told me she saw you come in ten minutes after I left.”

“That was nice of her. Does she spy on you often?”

“Yup. Keeps me in groceries, though, remember? I’d say that was worth her peeping down the hill at me.”

The mention of groceries reminded Jamie that he’d brought with him the wherewithal to cook Marc dinner and left it all downstairs in his bag. Which meant leaving the cocoon of Marc’s embrace when he could’ve quite happily stayed there forever.

Like he’d heard the conflict raging in Jamie’s cuddle-clouded brain, Marc loosened his hold and leaned back, gazing down at Jamie with that damn-fucking-doctor frown on his chiselled face. “Anyway, if you’ve been here since the arse crack of dawn, and you’ve blitzed this whole wall, I’m willing to bet the leg I’ve got left that you haven’t stopped for breath, let alone lunch, am I right?”

“Maybe. What did you have for lunch?”

“Erm . . .” A fleeting shadow crossed Marc’s face. “Let’s just say I didn’t get time and leave it at that, eh?”

“Suits me. Let’s go downstairs. I brought noodles.”

The spell around them broke. Jamie grabbed Marc’s hand and towed him carefully to the top of the stairs, then took his cue and jogged ahead, leaving Marc to negotiate the stairs at his own pace.

It didn’t surprise him that Marc appeared at the bottom much faster than he had the first time he’d shown Jamie the library. Jamie had spoken the truth when he’d said he could hardly detect Marc’s injuries now, and Marc was moving like an athlete—poised and strong.

Strong. That word had never meant so much. Jamie reclaimed Marc’s hand, even though there was no need. “Can we use your chilli plant again?”

“Sure. What are you making?”

“Singapore noodles. I bought a mega pack of rice vermicelli at that Morrisons by the petrol station when I was out roaming the other night. You like prawns?”

“There isn’t much I won’t put in my gob, mate. You all right if I grab a shower?”

“Um . . . sure.” Jamie turned towards the kitchen to hide the heat in his cheeks. Marc didn’t seem like a man who threw innuendo around for fun, but Jamie’s heart had skipped a beat anyway.

Jamie retreated to the stove and found a large frying pan that he could use in place of a wok. After briefly soaking the rice noodles, he tossed them in the pan with a bunch of vegetables and some prawns. He’d just chucked the spicy sauce in when Marc reappeared wearing a faded T-shirt and a pair of tatty cargo shorts, his metal prosthesis on show in all its glory.

Jamie’s breath caught in his throat, and he dropped the oversized wooden fork he’d been using to stir the noodles. Marc’s missing leg often slipped his mind, and it had been so long since he’d seen it that he’d pretty much forgotten all about it. Wow. Jamie hadn’t had time to study it when Marc had rolled his trouser leg up in this very kitchen all those weeks ago, but the prosthesis was strangely beautiful—and, as Jamie caught sight of the wild colours painted onto the curved plastic calf muscle, fucking awesome. “Oh my God, you have a tattoo on your prosthesis? That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You think?” Marc glanced at his leg. “My mate Glenn worked with a nurse in Chicago whose fella is an amazing tattooist, and he offered to get it painted for me to cheer me up when I was feeling sorry for myself. I never met the bloke who actually did it, but he nailed my state of mind at the time.”

Curious, Jamie shoved the pan off the heat and went to Marc’s side, dropping down low to examine the intricate artwork in more detail. It was a serpent—no, a dragon, and its fire came from deep within, smouldering in the pit of its stomach. There was anger there, and pain, but the underlying message was the warm, subtly fierce strength that personified Marc so well.

At least, the Marc that Jamie dreamed of when he was home alone in his empty flat—hiding from the dank cloud of addiction. “It’s perfect. How far does the leg go up?”

“See for yourself.”

“What?”

“It’s right in front of you. Take a look.”

Humour danced among Marc’s words, but not enough for Jamie to assume that he was joking. And once again, the desperate desire to know as much about Marc as he could possibly squeeze into his tiny brain overwhelmed any hesitancy he might’ve had.

With trembling fingers, Jamie pushed the fabric of Marc’s shorts away, chasing the trail of Marc’s warm skin. The prosthesic leg stretched on and on, but finally gave way to flesh and bone just below Marc’s knee. What he could see of the stump was spookily smooth, but then higher, a clutch of scars slashed Marc’s thighs, some neat and pink, and clearly from the surgery he’d recently had in Chicago, and then some that were older—angrier—and clearly a legacy of the catastrophic explosion that had claimed Marc’s leg in the first place.

Jamie took a shaky breath and traced a particularly raised mark with his fingertip. It looked like the burns he had on his own back—skin melted by fire—and not for the first time, his imagination treated him to the image of Marc on the ground, blown to bits . . . bloodied, broken, and burning. He shuddered and felt Marc falter too, his legs twitching and jerking, as though he was caught in the same nightmare as Jamie. Except it wasn’t a nightmare for Marc—it was reality, and one he’d never escape.

Marc’s hands closed around Jamie’s shoulders, and he steadied himself before gently tugging Jamie to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“You didn’t. You don’t. I just hate the thought of you being in pain.”

Marc hummed lowly. “I feel the same way when I think of you strung out on heroin. It hurts my bitter old heart.”

“Why?”

“Why do I care?”

Jamie nodded, glad that Marc had interpreted his question without the need for him to explain himself like a thirsty bitch, but conversely no longer needing the answer. “I care about you because you’re the first person in years to look at me and really see me. I’ve had good people in my life recently, but I know they don’t get me. They can’t fix me, you know?”

“No one can fix you, mate,” Marc said. “It doesn’t work like that, and there’s some folk who wouldn’t consider you broken. Do you think I am?”

“What? Broken?” Marc shrugged, and Jamie shook his head so hard his brain spun. “No, of course not.”

“So why would you see yourself that way? You’ve been hurt too, Jamie. Just a different gun.”

Damn it. What was it about this man that brought Jamie to tears when he hadn’t cried since he was twelve? And what the fuck was he even crying about now? That Marc could see what a mess he was in and still held him tight against his chest like he was his most precious thing? That for the second night in a row he couldn’t resist the call of Marc’s lips? Fuck. Coherent thought abandoned Jamie as Marc smothered him in a sweetly crushing embrace and drove his tongue into Jamie’s mouth, kissing him harder than he ever had before. Instantly lost, Jamie gasped and pressed himself against Marc, moulding himself to every hard ridge of Marc’s body, his shin scraping Marc’s prosthesis.

The pain sent a soft shockwave through him, driving him impossibly closer to Marc. He battled for dominance, his cock strained in his skinny jeans, and only the wailing arrival of Marc’s damn-fucking cat brought him to his senses a stuttered heartbeat before he unbuttoned Marc’s shorts.

They broke apart. Jamie’s eyes widened as he realised he’d somehow pushed Marc out of the kitchen and into the wall in the hallway. He pressed his forehead to Marc’s, breathing heavily. “I’d better go.”

Marc brought his hands to his lips, touching them lightly, like he was checking they were still there. “You’re not staying for dinner?”

Reluctantly, Jamie shook his head. “Not tonight. For once, I’m actually tired enough to sleep, and I think I should make the most of it.”

What could’ve been disappointment flashed briefly in Marc’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a compassion that melted and infuriated Jamie in equal measure. But he didn’t have it in him to get tricky with Marc tonight. He just wanted one more kiss, a touch—anything—before he went home.

He settled for brushing his lips along Marc’s stubbled jaw, and then he forced himself out of Marc’s arms, knowing that Marc would let him go. “Dinner’s in the pan. What you don’t eat, take it to work and have it for lunch.”

“I’m switching to nights tomorrow.”

“Supper, then. What are you doing during the day? Resting?”

“I can help you upstairs if you like?” Marc said.

“Nice try. What are you paying me for if you stick your nose in?” Jamie allowed himself one last trail of his fingers down Marc’s arm. “Don’t answer that. Just rest, okay? I won’t disturb you. Good night, Marc.”

“Night. And Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“I care about you because you let me.”