He wasn’t going to sleep in the fucking bed.
Grabbing one corner of the blanket, Douglas yanked it from its neat tuck around the mattress. Threw it around his shoulders. Realized this was the first time in more than a week that he wasn’t naked and pulled it closer. The first time he’d been warm, too. He pulled it up over his head, until only his face and fingers were showing.
Much better.
He considered the stripped bed again. Wasn’t sure why it horrified him so much; he’d been raped a hundred times in the past few weeks—on floors, in a van, on a table, on a fainting couch, even held aloft by several men—but never once in an actual bed. And yet the mere thought of climbing into it made him physically ill. The cage was just as bad, so he supposed it was back under the table again. But once he crawled under there, his decision to defy Nikolai would be made. There’d be no going back. Nikolai hadn’t hurt him yet—had in fact, strangely enough, been nothing but gentle with him, almost kind, if one didn’t count the as-good-as-rape blowjob (however ostensibly “willing” he’d been) and those awful, awful things Nikolai had said about his family. It sickened him to realize it, but in his heart, he wasn’t counting any of the shit Nikolai had done to hurt him. It seemed like nothing at all compared to what’d come before. Perfectly acceptable. Which frightened him even more than what Nikolai might do to him if he ever did disobey the man.
So he puttered around the room, shielded by his blanket, trying to find something, anything, to keep him from needing to make a decision. His meal was gone, so that was no help. He finally wasn’t thirsty anymore, so he couldn’t kill time drinking. He’d already shaved and brushed his teeth, and a shower was still out of the question. But, hmm, hadn’t Nikolai told him to explore? He hadn’t really done that yet, had he? Would doing it now be disobeying Nikolai’s order to get some rest? And if so, would it be better or worse than disobeying Nikolai’s strongly worded suggestion to sleep in the bed?
God, he just didn’t know.
For a few minutes, at least, he resumed his fruitless search for hidden cameras, but once again found absolutely nothing. Not that he had any idea what he was actually looking for, unless you really could learn this kind of thing from old Bond films.
Sean Connery would probably be handling this whole situation a hell of a lot better than he was.
He wondered how Mat was handling it. Fighting. Nikolai had said he’d fought him at every turn. Dougie didn’t doubt that for a moment, which sadly made doubting other things Nikolai had said—he’d be disgusted by you—uncomfortably difficult. Equally uncomfortable was the thought that he half (okay, sometimes whole) wished Mat would stop fighting. Why fight a fight you couldn’t win? Sucking Nikolai off hadn’t been enjoyable, but it hadn’t been bad, and it could have been worse. So much worse.
God, he really was a coward. No wonder Mat despised him.
No. Mat didn’t despise him. Nikolai had only said he did. And surely he was lying. He was.
He was probably lying about a lot of things. Intellectually, Dougie knew that. Knew the game Nikolai was playing. Knew how this worked—he’d studied the human psyche enough, read case studies about this very thing. Nikolai would isolate him physically and mentally, make a thousand little cracks in Dougie’s faith and relationships by feeding him doubts so close to the truth that they very well could be truth, and then wedge himself firmly inside those cracks via a volatile mix of kindness, understanding (I’m just like you, Douglas, I know what you’re going through), and brutality. He knew that. But he was also starting to understand, as those first cracks formed before his eyes (Pattie had died far too young and far too stressed; Mike had moved away to start a new life without him; they both had been paid to keep him; Mat had given up his best shot at success to stay with Dougie; Dougie was a coward, while Mat was the strongest person he’d ever met), that knowing wouldn’t save him if someone didn’t rescue them soon.
In fact, knowing might actually make it worse. For the first time in Dougie’s life, knowledge wasn’t power. Power was power, and the only person here who had any of that was Nikolai. And if he couldn’t fight that, then he’d simply have to outlast it. Someone would find them eventually. Someone would miss them, and someone would rescue them, and Nikolai and everyone else involved in this sick operation would be arrested, and Mat and Dougie would pick up the pieces. He just had to get through it with his body and his sanity intact.
Survive.
Dougie cast one last longing look under the table, pulled the blanket tighter around him, and crawled into bed.
Sleeping in a bed, that was nice. Not that Mat would ever admit it, but waking up (the next morning? that afternoon? that evening? there was no way of telling time here, not even a regular meal schedule he could discern) without pain in his back and neck was a welcome change. Waking up without pain period was a welcome change—or at least without the agony of that poison Nikolai had pumped into him. His ass still hurt from last night’s ramming with that huge fucking dildo, but he could live with that. After what’d come before, it was downright peaceful.
In fact, he was so comfortable right now he didn’t want to move. Soft-but-not-too-soft mattress and pillow beneath him. Warm blanket. Smooth sheets. But he was stiff, sore, like the day after going six rounds in that underground fight ring. Covered in dried sweat. Thirsty, too. The shower in the bathroom was calling to him.
Decision made, he threw back the covers and swung to his feet . . . and promptly fell back on his ass. Moving hurt. God, he was stiff. He lay back on the mattress, stretched carefully, and tried again. Better.
He stumbled to the bathroom, half expecting the door to open, Nikolai to come charging in with some new torture (or worse, the auto-injector), but he didn’t. Half expected the taps to be dry, or at least for the water to be freezing, but it wasn’t. The hot water was fucking heaven, and so far he’d only stuck his hand beneath the tap. On impulse, he plugged the drain; a bath would be better than a shower. Maybe not the manliest thing ever, but his body needed a long, hot soak, and frankly, he wasn’t a hundred percent convinced he could stay on his feet through a whole shower.
He soaked until the water went tepid, leaned back, eyes closed, trying very, very hard to think of nothing. Not where he was, or how he’d gotten here, or what would happen next, or Dougie, or— Wow, was he ever shit at thinking of nothing. Heaven, he reminded himself, sitting up just long enough to run more hot water into the tub. Enjoy it. It’s the first thing that hasn’t hurt in God knows how long. Fucking exquisite.
At some point, he wrangled up the energy to actually wash himself instead of lying there like a knocked-out fighter. The soap smelled a little bit like Old Spice and left his skin, which had pruned in the long soak, soft to the touch. He worked it into a lather over what had to be at least a week’s growth of beard—itchy, God, he hated it—worked up the energy to haul himself out of the tub, and shaved the dead animal off his face with a safety razor he found in the medicine cabinet. Toothbrush and toothpaste there, too, which he also availed himself of. Rinsed his mouth and took a long drink from the tap. Then he peered in the cabinet under the sink, where he found, hallelujah, a bath towel. He scrubbed dry and wrapped it around his waist. Maybe Nikolai would let him keep it.
Or maybe not. Fucker.
Well, maybe the fucker would feed him, at least. He patted his conspicuously flat stomach and padded out into the main room, hoping to find food.
What he found was Nikolai, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a novel, one leg folded primly over the other. And a capped syringe beside his mug.
Mat stopped up short, breath catching so hard he felt dizzy. No. No, not again.
He’d already stumbled back into the bathroom before he realized he’d moved. Hand on the door, halfway to slamming it shut, as if he thought he could disappear, like Nikolai hadn’t seen him, like he’d never been there. Maybe Nikolai would give up waiting.
“You look well rested,” Nikolai commented, eyes not leav
ing his book. Mat still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take his own eyes off the syringe. “Put that towel away and come sit.”
Fuck you, don’t tell me what to do. Fuck you, pervert. Fuck you, well rested my ass.
But Mat said, “Yes sir,” and pulled the towel from his body. Wouldn’t give Nikolai an excuse to . . . to . . . He tore his eyes from the needle, back to Nikolai. The man wasn’t even looking at him strip. Did he not get off on it? Then what the fuck was this fucking place and why the fuck was he here? Mat dropped the towel to the floor.
“Really?” Nikolai asked. “Are you really trying that? Don’t be a slob. Pick it up and put it where it belongs. Now. Consequences.”
God, Nikolai’s conditioning and mind games must have been working, because just the first syllable of that word made him shudder. The needle. The needle on the table. Mat quickly stooped to snatch up the towel.
“Don’t dawdle in there,” Nikolai called after him. “You can’t avoid this forever.”
Avoid what? What have I done this time?
God, he was going crazy. Turning into a beaten dog. His mind went over the last twenty-four hours, trying desperately to come up with an explanation, a reason why he could be punished. He’d slept in the bed like he was told. Was he not supposed to shower without permission? Was he not supposed to sleep under the covers? Was he . . .
He fell back into the main room, where Nikolai still waited. “Come sit,” Nikolai said, then snapped his fingers and pointed to the empty chair across from him.
Mat forced himself into the seat.
“Have you ever injected yourself before?” Nikolai asked casually. “With a needle like this? Steroids, perhaps? Blood doping? Heroin? Be honest.”
God, what the fuck kind of question was that? Mat opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was so tight. He shook his head. He still couldn’t take his eyes off the fucking needle.
Which meant he didn’t see Nikolai’s slap coming until it was too late. Not that he could’ve done anything about it, anyway. Maybe it was better that he hadn’t seen; what if his body had reacted on its own?
“You’ll speak when told to, boy. If I ask you a question, I expect a clear answer. At the very least ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir.’”
Mat rubbed at his stinging cheek. A ridiculous thing to do, as hard and as often as he’d been hit in his life. “No, sir,” he managed. “Never.”
It wasn’t even a very big needle. Like a flu shot, maybe. Or an insulin injection. Certainly not the auto-injector. Why the change?
Nikolai laid his fingertips atop it and pushed it across the table. To Mat. Casual as could be, like it was a mug of beer or some shit instead of pure hellish fucking torture in a syringe. “I want you to inject yourself with this. Do you think you need instructions on how?”
Mat’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Inject my . . . but why, sir? What did I do? Look, I—whatever I did, I’m sorry. I’ll fix it. I won’t do it again. Please. Please, please sir.”
All pride gone, Mat slid out of his chair, down to the floor. On his knees. He fucking crawled to Nikolai’s feet, pressed his lips to Nikolai’s instep—wasn’t that a thing guys like him liked? He’d fucking lick the sole of his shoe if it meant he wouldn’t have to do this. “Please, sir, I’ll suck you, I’ll do whatever you want—”
Nikolai grabbed Mat’s wrist—Mat had been reaching for Nikolai’s fly, hadn’t even realized it—and twisted it to straining in a simple joint lock. “What I want,” he said, “is not to have to repeat myself. As any master would expect. Instant, unquestioning obedience, Mathias. Though I’ll grant you that my client does want the illusion of struggle. So if you must argue? At least pretend to fight, not grovel like some toothless dog. Now get up.” He let Mat’s hand drop.
Mat scrambled back to his chair and sat again. The needle was still there waiting for him. Just looking at it made him want to puke. He didn’t take it. “Can’t you at least tell me why, sir? I mean, if it’s a consequence, shouldn’t I at least—”
“You only get explanations for what I do when I think it prudent. Unquestioning obedience. Don’t make me say it again, because then there really will be consequences. Take the syringe. Now.”
If I’ve already injected myself with this stuff, what else can he fucking do? What consequences could possibly be—
Dougie. He wouldn’t he said he wouldn’t. But oh God does that mean anything does his word mean anything do I deserve his word I’m a fucking dog to him.
Mat picked up the syringe with fingers trembling so hard he dropped it almost immediately. Picked it up again. Maybe Nikolai didn’t mean Dougie. Maybe he meant . . . who knew, maybe a 24/7 intravenous drip of this shit? How long could he live like that before his heart gave out? Or worse, his mind? How many times had he begged to die today alone?
“It would help if you took the cap off.”
God, was that humor in the sick fuck’s voice? Mat couldn’t make his hands work. Why couldn’t he make his hands work?
Nikolai laid one of his own hands across Mat’s, helping to steady him. Mat worked the cap free.
“A large muscle, if you would. The top of the thigh, perhaps.”
Mat looked down at his own naked thigh and swallowed back the urge to vomit. It was a near thing, never mind that he hadn’t eaten since what he assumed was yesterday. He gripped the syringe in his fist, held it over his leg . . .
“I can’t,” he said. Begged.
Nikolai looked none too pleased. Not giving an inch. Firm, like a disappointed father. Ugh, what a sick fucking thought. “You can. You will.”
“Please,” Mat tried again, but was already pushing the needle into his thigh. It bit the muscle, and then—
“Push the plunger,” Nikolai ordered.
Mat did, squeezing his eyes shut. Hardest fucking thing he’d ever done, and he’d buried his parents, lost his brother to the foster system, spent the last few weeks in Madame’s dubious care. He ground his teeth, waited for the fire to start.
It didn’t. He opened one eye, then the other. Looked down at the needle, suddenly unsure he’d gotten it into himself. But no, there it was, sticking out of his thigh like some kind of grotesque sideshow. He pulled it out, watched a single bead of blood well up.
“You see?” Nikolai sounded pleased. When Mat looked up, he found him smiling. “Unquestioning obedience, Mathias. This was never meant as a punishment.”
A test? Some kind of sick fucking test?
“But it could have been, had you refused me. Do you understand now?”
“Ye . . .” He blinked, his tongue thick in his mouth, like it was made of toffee or something. No, that didn’t make sense. “Yessir.” Oh God, he was slurring.
Oh. It felt good. His vision swam, his body pulsed with warmth, and he should have been frightened or furious at being drugged like this but God it felt so damn fucking fantastic. Christ, he even had the beginnings of a hard-on.
“Your brother has taken well to this lesson already, Mathias. Life here need not hurt. Well . . .” he shrugged. “Yours may no matter what you do, and I’d be remiss to pretend it might be otherwise. But there can be much pleasure as a pleasure slave, if you allow it. Embrace it. Or, in your case, don’t fight it too hard. Remember this: you must struggle, but you must always let your master win in the end. And the end comes when he decides it, not when you do. Follow those rules and you may find yourself feeling this good again.”
Token resistance, then give in. Got it. It all seemed so simple when he put it like that. So easy. Mat slumped back in his chair. Would Nikolai mind if he went to bed now? He just wanted to close his eyes. Float. Bask in this . . . whatever it was. Not hurting. Yeah, that was it—bask in not hurting.
“I’d like to talk to you now, Mathias. Honestly.”
Honest. He could do honest. “You suck. Um, sir.”
Oh God, had he said that out loud?
Nikolai laughed. “I’ll forgive that on account of the drug, Mathias. But what I w
ould really like to talk about is your brother. Will you tell me about him?”
“Doan’ wanna talk about him,” Mat replied.
“I’d prefer if you did.” Nikolai’s tone was warning. Even high out of his mind, Mat picked up on that.
“What d’you wan’ me to say? He’s my brother. I love him. I miss him. I’m afraid for him.”
“He’s flourishing here, you know.”
No. “Bullshit. No.”
“Yes. I think in less than a month, he’ll have learned to be very happy here. With me. With his new purpose.”
“He adapts.” The thought made Mat suddenly, blindingly proud. “He’s a smart kid, no’ like me. He does what he’s gotta to get by.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Scares me. Makes me feel like . . . like I dunno him. Can’t know him. Me, I’m always the same no matter what. Him, he’s who he needs to be.”
God, why was he saying all this stuff? Couldn’t seem to stop it. “Chameleon,” his mouth added, as if he hadn’t spewed enough secrets to Nikolai already.
“Scares you? Do you think if it would save himself, he’d hurt you?”
“Done it already, hasn’e. You saw. At the auction. Fucking raped me with that . . . that thing. Tortured me. Held me still while I begged him to stop—” No. No. He didn’t mean any of that. Didn’t mean it. He knew Dougie had only done what he’d had to do, had only done what Madame had forced him to do . . . But why couldn’t he say that? Where was all this awful shit coming from? “I can’t . . . I can’t trust him.” Yes, I can. I can and shut up, stop talking, stop talking stop talking you don’t mean any of this stop talking. “He can trust me, but I can’t trust him.”
“Why do you think that is? Would you have done things differently?”
“I’d have let those fuckers kill me before I hurt him. But I’m an idiot. Dunno when to quit. Coach Darryl’s been tellin’ me that for years, didja know? I never let him throw in the towel. Never tapped out in a money match. Not once.” He frowned. “Ref called it a few times, though . . .”
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