Flesh Cartel, #8: Loyalties

gentleness of the touch that finally made his own arms give out. He flopped back to his stomach, squeezed his eyes closed. Roger’s hand followed him down, rubbed between his shoulder blades. “I meant you’re the only one who can stop blaming yourself for what’s happening here. To you. To Douglas. I know you can’t . . . you can’t transform like Douglas is, that the master can’t let that happen. But you can’t fight this, either, not really. So either you choose to keep hurling yourself against a brick wall, or you choose to save your strength for when it matters. And that too is a choice only you can make.”
    Mat scoffed, jerked his shoulder until Roger stopped touching him. The only thing that made him madder than hearing this shit from Roger’s mouth was the fact that Roger was right .
    Which was why he was lying here waiting to die. Because nothing mattered anymore. Nothing ever would again. So what was there to save his strength for?
    Winning .
    God, how long ago had it been that he’d written that stupid fucking list? And everything Nikolai had predicted had come to pass. Was the list any less true now than then?
    Get out of here. Burn this place down. Save Dougie and himself.
    “Nikolai told me once that you wanted to help people.”
    But Dougie hated him now.
    I can still save him.
    “Can’t even help myself,” he growled into his pillow.
    Roger, the persistent bastard, laid a hand back on Mat’s shoulder. He wanted to shrug away again, but he didn’t have the energy for it. Which was fine, he supposed—it gave truth to his words, truth Roger would have to listen to.
    “Of course you can. You’ve just chosen not to.”
    Strength returned in a rush of righteous fury— How fucking dare he! —and Mat lurched up and spun around, fist following the momentum in a hard right hook that smashed into Roger’s cheek and sent the fucker tumbling clear off the bed. Mat started after him, feeling pretty fucking proud of himself for managing such a clean blind strike just by following the sound of Roger’s voice— starved half to death and you still got it, baby —but as Mat rolled (okay, sort of fell, more like) off the edge of the bed, he caught his first good look at Roger’s face. Or rather, the bits he could see of it around the hands pressed to Roger’s cheek. Like the fresh black eye that could under no circumstance have formed in the last five seconds. Or the barely healed split lower lip. Or the defensive bruising and welts on Roger’s bare forearms.
    And he knew in an instant, with a certainty that made his very empty stomach try to turn itself inside out, that somehow this was all his fault.
    “Oh God . . .”
    “That bad?” Roger asked, and then he fucking laughed .
    “N-Nikolai?” Mat managed to get out, so furious, so confused, so terrified, so fucking empty and plain old sad he couldn’t form a sentence.
    Roger shrugged and picked himself up the floor, helping Mat up in turn. “He’s my master. Our master. He told me to nurse you back to health, and I let him down. Did you think you were the only one who had to face consequences?”
    Why wasn’t Roger upset?
    No, Mat knew the answer to that. The guy was a fucking mess. Could Mat really hold him responsible for that fact? Nikolai had half broken Mat, probably destroyed Dougie by now—with Mat’s cooperation, Jesus—and they’d only been here . . . well, Mat didn’t know how long. Roger had been here for years . He was fucking helpless, and here Mat was making his life hell and then punching him in the face for his trouble. “I’m a selfish asshole, aren’t I?”
    Roger rubbed at the redness just above his jaw, but Mat didn’t think he intended to chastise with the gesture. “A little, yes. But that’s normal, on the outside. I was too, before I came here.” Not angry at Nikolai for hurting him, not mad at Mat for causing that hurt. The guy was a saint. A stupid saint. The human equivalent of a kicked dog that kept getting abused and abused and just loved you more for it, worked harder to make you love it even half as much in return.
    And Mat had the man’s welfare in his hands, and he’d completely fucked it up. His stomach tried to crawl up his throat again. First Dougie, now Roger . . . God, was there anyone he hadn’t hurt? Maybe Roger’s injuries weren’t so bad. He had to know; maybe he could find a way to live with himself if they weren’t so bad. Find a way to redeem himself. Maybe . . . “Let