The Flesh Cartel #6: Brotherhood

no God please no I was good I was good I was good why is this happening—
“Trust me, Mathias. Be still.” Nikolai didn’t sound angry yet, but his voice was firm. He planted a hand on Mat’s bruised chest, pinning him to the bed.
“No, look, please . . .” Mat licked chapped lips, stinging and split. “Please, just . . . just let me die, okay? Please just kill me just let me die let me—”
“Shhh. I said trust me. No more pain. Not today.”
The needle pierced the fleshy part of Mat’s hip, and Mat squeezed his eyes closed, held his breath, wondered if he could keep holding it until he upped and died. But there was no pain, no pain at all, just . . .
“Morphine.”
I wish you’d overdose me.
Hard to believe there’d been a time when that’d seemed so terrifying, that first day on the floor at Madame’s warehouse, fighting for their lives. But now . . .
Now he felt . . . not so bad, actually, and that was such a huge fucking relief he felt like crying all over again. The pain was still there, but it was . . . padded somehow. Like he was feeling all the cuts and bruises and . . . whatever that fucking baseball bat had done to his insides as if through layers and layers of bubble wrap. He closed his eyes, letting himself drift.
A click on the bedside table, and when his eyes finally tracked the sound, he saw a framed picture there, the one that had been on the mantle in their living room. The family in Hawaii for his graduation. Mat with a sunburn. Dougie, pre–growth spurt, soft and skinny, his bright eyes and smile taking up his whole face. And his parents, God, his parents . . . So happy, so proud, so in love, so alive. He reached out a hand, brushed fingertips across their faces. Sniffed back tears and then couldn’t anymore, just let them fall, didn’t even care that he was doing it in front of Nikolai and how could he be so happy to see something that was clearly upsetting him so much?
“There now,” Nikolai said, his voice as soft and distant as the pain. “Hold on tight to those happy memories, Mathias. You’ve earned them. You’ll need them.” He stroked a gentle hand over Mat’s hair, grown back to the length it’d been before Madame’s groomer had shaved it all off. It was a soft touch, affectionate, soothing. The one place that monster hadn’t hurt him. Mat mustered enough coordination to pick up the picture, curl it to his chest, and close his eyes. “There’s a good man. Sleep well.”
This was his reward. The last thing he had left, and he didn’t have to fight for it at all. Nikolai would let him keep it. He could live with that. It could be enough.
He slept, clutching those memories tight.
chapter six
    F

    or the second time in as many days, Dougie woke up warm and safe and well-rested.
    And in pain.
The belt. The baseball bat.
He snapped awake to discover his head pillowed on
    Nikolai’s thigh and himself curled up on his side against Nikolai’s legs, snuggled there like the man was a body pillow. A hand rested on the back of his head, thumb and fingers stroking idly through his hair, which smelled like the sweet shampoo in his bathroom rather than sweat and blood and fear.
    Nikolai saved me. He saved me when nobody else would. And now he’s here.
He pressed closer, tentatively nuzzling one hard thigh. He felt . . . nothing, really. Gratitude, yes, but lurking somewhere down deep beneath that was the same old anger. Muted now. Cowering and weak. He inhaled, taking in Nikolai’s scent— pressed wool and mild soap and some kind of aftershave that probably cost more than Dougie had ever spent on anything. It was . . . nice, he supposed. He tried to feel affection. Maybe even love. Couldn’t, really, but at least he felt . . . safe. Felt like the object of affection as Nikolai’s hand stroked down his head, to his neck, massaged gently.
“Good morning,” Nikolai said, and Dougie heard the smile in his voice, saw him lay down a paperback with a broken spine on the bedside table. Had he been sitting vigil all night, reading until Dougie woke? Now that thought felt warm. Made him feel warm in return. He clung to it with both hands. Needed it. It was a start. It’d be enough; it’d have to be. It was all he had now.
“Good morning, sir,” he replied. God, he sounded terrible. He’d screamed himself raw yesterday begging Mat to help, begging that awful man to stop.
“You slept a long time. Do you need anything?”
“Sir?”
“Do you need me to take you to the