The Flesh Cartel, #10: False Gods

to such stupid romantic notions once, but now he knew what real suffering was, and there wasn’t anything romantic about it at all.
    “Go lie down,” Roger instructed, none of the usual warmth in his voice. Did he like this, being Nikolai’s right-hand man, even for the ugliest jobs? Or was it just a burden he bore, the price he paid?
    Roger sighed. It seemed he was no better at the tough-love facade than Dougie was at the tough-man facade. “I’m trying to help you,” Roger said. “Don’t make this worse than it already is.”
    Even if he hadn’t added that bit, Dougie still would have gone willingly. He went to the bed beside his brother’s and lay down. Didn’t struggle or fight when Roger buckled him into the thick leather straps, even though the raw metal frame bit miserably into his skin. Mat was struggling enough for the both of them now, shouting around his gag, shaking his head. Like he couldn’t believe Dougie would so easily submit to bondage. Or maybe Mat just knew what was coming and couldn’t bear the thought of Dougie having to endure it; he might still hate Dougie, but old habits were hard to break, Dougie knew that better than most. Nikolai had said that Mat spent much more time being punished and facing consequences than Dougie ever had. Bad habits were hard to break, too.
    Roger finished strapping him down, and Dougie braced himself for whatever might come next. Tried not to be afraid. He needed this, after all. Deserved it, even. Maybe when it was over, things could go back to the way they were before. Nikolai would take him back. He would want to be taken back.
    Standing up straight above them, looking at neither of them, Roger spoke. “So. The master has instructed me to tell you that since you decided to tie your fates to one another instead of to him, you’ll both be punished the same. Bound by pain.”
    A beating, then? Would Roger take one of the whips or canes or paddles off the wall and beat them both? Make him scream in front of Mat, who already found him weak and disgusting? And probably ten times more weak and disgusting after tonight’s debacle. Was that the plan? Make it so that whatever thin thread of brotherly affection and responsibility still bound Mat to Dougie would snap?
    And what of Dougie? Would Roger make even the great and mighty Mathias Carmichael beg and cry? Did Nikolai mean for Dougie to see that even the man he’d once worshipped could be brought so low? Remind Dougie that no one— no one —could hold out forever so he’d best just let go now before he caused himself unnecessary pain?
    Roger didn’t move to fetch a whip, though. Or a paddle or a crop or anything else. Just reached into his pants pocket with one hand and pulled out . . . What the hell was that? Dougie strained to lift his head off the bed frame, get a closer look. Some kind of marker, maybe?
    Whatever it was, it was apparently worse than any cane or strap, because once Roger had pulled his hand out of his pocket, Mat’s howls intensified, became almost animalistic. No, not almost animalistic—he sounded like an injured stray at a shelter, backed into a corner by threatening strangers. Even through the gag, there was no mistaking the No and Don’t and Please spilling on an endless loop from Mat’s mouth.
    Whatever was in Roger’s hand, there was no way it could be as serious as Mat was making it out to be. And fuck him and his panic, anyway—wasn’t he supposed to be the strong one for Dougie? He’d gotten them into this, after all, fucking dragged Dougie by the ear out of the house and into the woods and away from his master and any chance he’d had at a happy life, and now he was cowering and begging like Dougie at his absolute fucking worst and “Would you shut the fuck up ?” Dougie shouted, because he was sick of this shit, the unfairness of it all, the pretending to be one thing and then behaving like another and he needed Mat to not fucking do this. “Just shut up! Shut up and take it like a fucking man, you ass!”
    The noise cut off as suddenly as if Dougie had struck him, and when Dougie turned his head to look at Mat, see what bullshit excuse was printed on his face, Mat was blinking back at him, eyes huge and wounded, mouth slack around the gag and a single tear tracking its way down his cheek. His chest was still heaving, but he’d stopped struggling. He looked . . . sorry. And terrified. But mostly sorry.
    Yeah, well, he should be. What kind of man was he,