The Flesh Cartel #6: Brotherhood

Nikolai, anyway. Standing over him, bent at the waist. Hand on his shoulder. Gentle.
“What are you doing, Mathias?” Was that concern in his voice?
“Taking a bath.”
“There’s no water.”
“It got cold.” He hugged himself, suddenly unable to look Nikolai in the eye despite the rebellion in his words.
Silence, for a while. Awkward, horrible silence, and Mat just wished Nikolai would go away, just go away and let him suffer in peace.
“You did very well, Mathias. I came to thank you.”
Thank him? Mat turned his head, met Nikolai’s gaze and glared. It was all he could manage right now, and Jesus, he wished he could stop fucking shaking, but it’d have to be enough. Probably for the best. Were he any stronger, he’d have fucking decked the fucker. Consequences. “I was good,” he said. Practically begged, and he hated the way he sounded like a whining child, felt like one too, but he couldn’t help it. “I did exactly what you asked! Why did you—” He had to stop, swallow. He was so close to bursting into tears it was downright humiliating. “I played my part, didn’t I? Why did you let that man—” hurt me so much “—do those . . . those things to me? What did I do wrong?”
“You did nothing wrong. You played your part very, very well, Mathias. But . . .” Nikolai sighed. “The man you met tonight really is a valuable associate of mine. I had to give him something in trade for letting me play the savior for your brother. Your body for your brother’s, Mathias. Aren’t you glad you played such a crucial role in saving Douglas from more pain?”
No, he thought childishly—or perhaps just in a moment of perfect, selfish honesty. He wouldn’t have wished this on Dougie for the world, but he’d been wrong—there were worse things than the serum. At least the serum was so terrible he . . . disassociated, maybe. Didn’t feel it quite so vividly in the middle hours. But what’d been done to him today? God, he was feeling it even now, fresh as if it were still happening. Still breathless with pain, humiliation, fear, shame. That man had hurt him in a way the serum never had. Never could.
“I understand. You’re angry with me. You’re in pain. You’re not thinking objectively. That’s all right, Mathias. When your head is clear, think back on this and remember how very pleased I was with you today. I needed to know, you see.”
He didn’t want to ask, didn’t mean to ask, but somehow he found himself saying, “Know what?”
“That you could hold up under strain and not snap. Not strike out or hurt anyone. That I’d taught you well enough. Because, yes, good behavior should be rewarded. And in this house, it is. But when I sell you on, I can make no promises. Good behavior will spare you some pain, but not all. My client wouldn’t want you unbroken if he didn’t intend to hurt you for the thrill of it at least some of the time. You can buy some time with obedience. But not forever. And you’ve shown me tonight that you’ll be able to abide it when your time runs out.”
“No disrespect, sir? But I just don’t give a shit. Leave me alone.” He wished he wasn’t curled up in the bottom of a bathtub, that he was still man enough to walk out into his room and whack the punching bag around—the closest he could get in this place to saying dismissed. But he couldn’t do anything.
“Let’s get you into bed. I have a gift for you.”
Is it freedom? That’s the only fucking gift I want from you.
Actually, he wasn’t sure he did anymore. For Dougie, yes, always, but for him . . . He didn’t deserve to be free. If he ever left this hell, he should be sent straight to prison. Accessory to felony assault. To rape with a baseball bat. He’d just sat there. Just sat there and done nothing.
Like he was now. But then Nikolai reached down to help him out of the tub, and he let himself be helped. This was his life now. Serving Nikolai. Weathering pain. Looking mean but acting like a good little pet. Pit bull on a short chain. All bark, no bite.
He lost a few seconds to the headrush and the agony of being moved. Came back to himself as Nikolai was lifting his feet onto the mattress, wetness streaking his cheeks. The bed was warm, but the sheets rasped against his skin.
“Shhh,” Nikolai said, stroking a hand over his brow. “I’ll send Roger to tend your wounds. For now, your gift.”
He reached into his pocket, producing a syringe.
Mat lurched away, frantic—no not the serum