The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods

see some bruiser in a tux—one of the animals who’d tortured Dougie in the cabin for a week straight—stride through the door and slam it shut behind him.
    Mat wondered if he’d have time to knock all the fucker’s teeth out before more of them came for him.
    But it was an idle thought, strangled at birth. He knew how such a course of action would end. Besides, it was a bit late to be defending his brother’s honor, wasn’t it.
    “Party time,” the bruiser said. “And don’t think about fucking this up for the master. Your buyer’s here stinking up the place with a big sulk, and he needs some cheering before he brings the whole party down. Seeing you get smacked around should do the trick.”
    “Fuck you,” Mat snarled. Seriously reconsidered the teeth thing.
    The bruiser studied one cufflink, completely unfazed. “Be a shame if he had to smack around your little brother instead. Poor thing’s already been entertaining the guests all night.”
    Oh, for fuck’s sake. It was like he had a fucking sign on his forehead or something: “Dougie’s Whipping Boy.”
    Not that he wasn’t willing.
    He just didn’t understand why anyone needed to whip anyone at all. Nikolai hadn’t seriously hurt him in at least a week or two; maybe he was just overdue. He hated how the thought of that was significantly less intimidating than the thought of being in the same room with Dougie again. He was fucking terrified of what he’d see—or not see—when he looked into his brother’s eyes.
    “You coming? Or do I tell the master you said to take it out of your brother’s ass, instead?”
    “Fine. Whatever.” Mat stood, stripping his shorts and sneakers without being asked. He was expecting to be prepared or something then, the way he’d been at Madame’s, but the bruiser just clipped him into a big collar on a pole, like the ones used for catching rabid dogs, then cuffed his hands behind his back. Pushed him out ahead. No way he could fight anyone like this. Which was probably smart of Nikolai. Or maybe all just part of the show for his buyer. Should he act rabid? Let his anger loose? What would make the guy happy? What would make the pain end the quickest? Give the buyer what he wants and it’s over faster. Isn’t that what Nikolai had told Mat oh-so-long ago, back when Dougie had still been . . . Dougie?
    The bruiser marched him up the stairs, out the open door. The noise was louder up here, murmured voices and the clink of silverware and the occasional laugh or moan. Something smelled amazing. Several somethings, actually, much of which were either coming or going on trays carried by tuxedoed middle-aged models, who Mat only belatedly recognized as Dougie’s other rapists all dressed up in their finery.
    “Put on a show,” the bruiser told him just as they approached the door to what must’ve been the dining room, shaking the pole to rattle him. Like the good dog Mat was, he struggled against the collar and let out a furious howl. The conversation in the room went silent. All his entrance needed was a record scratch.
    What he got instead was Nikolai, casting an appraising gaze, then announcing to the room, “And to go with your dessert, I thought I’d show you my other little project. Mathias Carmichael, my fighting dog, never to know the true pleasure of submission. He’ll struggle until he dies.” And even with all his twisting and shouting, Mat didn’t miss the way Nikolai’s eyes strayed to a short, dark-eyed man seated at one end of the table, his dessert uneaten, a glass of some golden liquor on the rocks in one hand.
    “Is that the fucker who wants my ass?” Mat shouted, twisting his shoulders, nearly bucking the bruiser off him. No show anymore—he was furious . “What do you think, you rich old pervert? Nikolai train me up nice for you?”
    The man put down his drink and smiled . Turned to Nikolai and asked, “Does it bite?”
    “Oh yes, if you let it. I suggest a bit gag or ring gag, depending on your pleasure. But I assure you he won’t be biting anything tonight. And he does know how to heel; I’ve beaten that much into him, at least.”
    Nikolai strode around the table, to the corner of the room off toward Mat’s left. Mat followed with his eyes and saw—oh God, Dougie . Kneeling there with Roger, glaring daggers at Mat. He couldn’t . . . he just couldn’t . He looked away. But not in time to miss Nikolai laying a possessive hand on Dougie’s shoulder, or Dougie