The Flesh Cartel - Episode #4: Consequences

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 leaving his book. Mat still couldn’t
    breathe, couldn’t take his own eyes off the syringe. “Put that