The Flesh Cartel (3 page)

He stopped. His heart pounded. No, he would talk about this too. His former life. He would talk about it like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t taboo, and then it wouldn’t hurt so bad. “The night I was taken, that was what I was most worried about. I’d bought some junk food I had to eat before Mat got home.” How clearly he remembered weighing the change in his pocket, contemplating the shuttle schedule: Could he afford to splurge? Would he miss the bus? It all seemed so ridiculous now, somehow. “I guess it wasn’t the worst of my worries in the end, was it?”

“Was it ever?”

No, he supposed not. There were the bills, and not getting calls from Mike recently, and keeping his grades up, and getting permission to do research, and Mat’s mysterious bruises. “I guess not,” he admitted.

“Soon you will know, Douglas, what it’s like to have no worries at all. You’ll never worry again. You’ll give of yourself, and be taken care of in return.”

He’d been so eager these last few years to “grow up,” to
do
the taking care of instead of
being
taken care of like he had his whole life. But really, what was so great about that? About worrying about everything all the time? And who was even left to care for? Mike had his own family, didn’t need Dougie anymore. Pattie and Mom and Dad were dead. And Mat . . . well, Mat was gone, wasn’t he. Gone and never coming back, and Dougie deserved that, deserved all of it.

But maybe, just maybe, he deserved love too. Nikolai had been right about so many things already; maybe he was right about this as well. Maybe being cared for
was
his destiny. And to be honest, right about now, it didn’t sound so bad. Not scary or sad or depressing or anything. Just . . . safe, maybe. The natural order. What he’d been born for, made for.

Now if only he could figure out how to love his caretaker in return. Then, he thought, he might finally be happy.

Nikolai hadn’t thought of his mother in a long time. He’d failed her, in the end—failed to anticipate her loss of purpose when his mentor had died, failed to staunch her despair, and worst of all, failed to predict the bloody mess she’d make of herself and his mentor’s en suite in time to save her life—and his memories of her were always tinged with sadness now, with a sense of preventable loss, with the chastisement of irresponsibility. He’d vowed never to make such mistakes again. Never to so disastrously misread another in his care. He owed them more than that.

And it was precisely
because
of what he owed them that he’d been willing to face those memories once more to help Douglas find peace.

Strange how this time the recrimination didn’t feel quite so powerful. As if Douglas had brought him some measure of peace in return.

Perhaps they were more alike than he’d realized.

He stroked the boy’s dozing head, combing fingers through downy-soft hair grown out past his ears, then reluctantly stood.

After their breakfast, he’d given Douglas more painkillers and talked about nothing with him as he’d slowly and peacefully nodded off.

If the cruelty he’d carried out yesterday was his least favorite part of the job, then this was his most favorite: gently guiding a newly willing and pliant boy to accept and understand the role he’d always been destined for. It was complicated, careful work, with harder tests ahead. And then, when Nikolai’s work was through and Douglas’s transformation was complete, would come the hardest part of all . . .

But for now, Nikolai would enjoy these sweet first days and, as always, worry about the future when it came.

Speaking of worrisome futures . . . Nikolai tiptoed out of Douglas’s room and then headed up the stairs to his office, where Roger had left a tea tray just how he liked it. He poured himself a cup and settled in to watch this morning’s “conversation” between Roger and Mathias. All exactly as he’d expected: Mathias in the throes of unbearable guilt, convinced he’d made a catastrophic mistake he was powerless to undo. Given how deeply his sense of self was wrapped up in the role of his brother’s protector, Nikolai knew there’d be no reaching him now—no fear of consequences, no motivation to behave. The animal would probably welcome any punishment he’d force Nikolai to inflict; he no doubt thought he deserved it. So rather than tempt the beast, Nikolai was having Roger care for him instead, doing what Roger did so well and worming his way beneath Mathias’s skin. The man seemed to have a certain sympathy for Roger anyway. Best to use it to his advantage.

Was it selfish and irresponsible to hand off Mathias to Roger while Nikolai tended to Douglas, the brother without a buyer? Perhaps. Some would argue most certainly. But any attempt to work with Mathias would only end in violence now, and Nikolai suspected not even the serum would make him pliant. But Roger could slip through cracks Mathias didn’t even realize he had. And Roger was Nikolai’s right hand. Nikolai could use him to accomplish what he himself could not. There was no shame in that.

If that rationale allowed him to indulge his growing affection for Douglas? Well. He was the master, after all.

Days passed. Nikolai slowly nursed Douglas back to health until he was able to get out of bed unassisted, until the bruises faded. He visited the boy daily, keeping training to a minimum. They ate together. Talked. Well, Douglas talked, mostly, and Nikolai listened. The boy always spoke softly, rarely making eye contact, but it seemed almost a compulsion for him, a purging of his prior life, as if by speaking of it he might hope to put it to rest.

And so Nikolai let him speak of what he would, rarely steering the conversation. Mostly inane things, things he couldn’t even use in future training. But that was all right. They had all the time in the world, and not everything had to serve a purpose. He
liked
Douglas. He liked hearing about his family vacations, and the year he’d almost been held back for failing geometry, and how his father had sneakily taught him and Mathias basic math as children by playing penny poker with them every Saturday afternoon. How he looked forward to those games all week, even when they’d long outgrown their purpose. How they seemed like the only time Mathias ever sat still for longer than the span of a meal, how much that time had meant to Douglas.

Other times, Nikolai had the boy read aloud to him, or give him massages—nothing sexual, nothing below the belt—or other assorted tasks associated with personal service. All useful skills, but all selected to be the least emotionally trying of exercises. Pleasant, small things they could both enjoy and that solidified the growing bond between them. He could see the boy trying so hard to
feel
during those tasks, to find the root of his own fondness and plant it firmly in this new soil. The boy offered his friendship like a flower he wasn’t sure how to keep alive. He knew it needed care he couldn’t manage on his own. Nikolai did his best to nurture it, to help it grow, counseling patience over and over, and promising a future filled with warmth and sunlight, and in exchange the boy was ever eager to please. It wasn’t love, not yet, not by a long shot. But the bud was there.

And now that the boy was well enough again to smile and walk and feed himself, it was time to stretch the boundaries a little more. Combine a slightly more intensive training exercise with a memorable, worthwhile reward.

He gathered up the shopping bag Roger had prepared and took it down to Douglas’s room. When he unlocked and opened the door, Douglas was stretched out on his belly on the bed, nose stuck in the book of poetry Nikolai had given him to memorize. Nikolai’s eyes lingered for a moment on the delicate curve of his ass, on one strong thigh. A runner’s legs, like his brother. He’d finally begun to fill out a little these past few days, soften a bit as he recovered from his earlier deprivation. The sight pleased Nikolai; very few, himself included, liked their boys quite so . . . stringy.

“How go your lessons?” Nikolai asked, placing the shopping bag on the table by the door.

Douglas startled, turned around, and slid to his knees on the floor. He must’ve been quite engrossed. And trustful. Only a boy who’d learned to shed his needless fear would miss the sound of his door opening. He opened his mouth, presumably to apologize, but then his eyes landed on Nikolai’s smile, and he said instead, in an uncertain, breathy rush:

Being your slave, what should I do but tend,

Upon the hours, and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend;

Nor services to do, till you require.

He paused, blushing fiercely, eyes sliding from Nikolai’s mouth (curved now into a very firm smile, oh, his clever, clever boy!) to somewhere around Nikolai’s chest. Douglas’s fingers twitched on his thighs, and he cleared his throat, an oddly delicate sound, almost a nervous cough.

“Please,” Nikolai prompted, as encouraging as he knew how to be. Douglas had chosen this sonnet for a reason. Nothing so apropos could possibly have been for Nikolai’s benefit alone; no, Douglas’s unconscious mind was seeking to make poetry of his own life—find beauty and meaning in his servitude—as surely as he was seeking to please Nikolai. “Continue.”

Douglas nodded, pulled his gaze back up to Nikolai’s face, and held it there, their eyes locked. And this time when he began again, it was firmer, surer, the words confident and rhythmic and imbued with meaning.

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,

When you have bid your servant once adieu;

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

Save, where you are, how happy you make those.

So true a fool is love, that in your will,

Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

Nikolai’s grin had spread from ear to ear, and when Douglas finished, all flaming cheeks and shy smiles but steadfastly unwavering gaze, Nikolai crossed the room, hunched down before Douglas, took that lovely, hopeful face in both hands, and kissed it. Forehead, cheek, lips. They parted for him, let him in, and Nikolai sighed into Douglas’s mouth as the boy tentatively kissed him back. No passion, not yet, but it was sweet and lovely and so very
giving
, and Nikolai knew that if he were to lay Douglas down right now and ask for more, for anything at all, the boy would say yes to please him. Not out of fear, but hunger. For affection. For love. For the secret key that might let him feel those things in return. The boy was so tired of pretending; Nikolai could sense that in the manic edge creeping into the kiss. So tired of trying to fool himself.

“Soon,” Nikolai murmured against Douglas’s lips. “I promise you. Soon.”

Douglas nodded. He knew exactly what Nikolai meant. Gods knew they’d discussed it enough, Douglas’s halting, fearful, tearful questions, shame pinking his cheeks as he stumbled through one fresh admission after another.
I-I want to, but I don’t and I’m sorry but I don’t know how . . .
And then the last part, always the same, warming Nikolai’s heart:
Please, help me.

Yes, Nikolai would help him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and Douglas immediately shifted so that his upper body was draped over his master’s lap. Nikolai ran a hand down the smoothness of his neck, down to cup his shoulder.

“Sit up.” Nikolai patted the mattress next to him. “I have a gift for you.”

Douglas rose to obey. There was no mistaking the tinge of fear in his eyes, but he suppressed it quickly. Good boy.

This new position, with his knees parted and his hands resting on his thighs, left his body perfectly open to Nikolai’s gaze, and Nikolai took advantage of that, eyes roving over the smoothness of his chest and belly, down to his soft pink cock resting against his inner thigh. “Roger visited you with the wax?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” Barely a waver, but the remembered pain was clear on his face. Good; Nikolai could afford no moments of fondness between Douglas and anyone else but himself right now—no more than he could afford to personally do too many painful or upsetting things to Douglas during this formative time. Like waxing. Not for the first time, Nikolai was glad he could trust Roger to take on such sensitive work.