Choices

by Rachel Haimowitz

  “If I were training you as I train the others, I might just now have offered reprieve from the consequences you earned with your earlier disobedience. Unfortunately . . .” He shrugged—orders are orders, you understand. “With you, there can never be escape from consequences. There won’t be when I sell you on. The best you can do is choose to avoid them next time. I can’t give you the gifts I want to give you, so I’ll prepare you as best I can for the life ahead. It’s still a gift, if perhaps a bitter one. Now please”—he gestured toward the bed—“lie down.”

  Mathias eyed the bed, the guards on either side of him, Nikolai, the bed again. He didn’t move, no doubt figured he was already being punished so why bother.

  “You can lie down, or you can fall down. And neither I nor anybody else will be here to make sure you land safely. Consequences.”

  Mathias sat down, and then, hesitantly, eyes on the guards, eased himself onto his back. Nikolai smiled to let him know he’d done well, and locked a shackle around his ankle. Not too tight. Just enough to keep him from wandering.

  “Now then. I’m afraid you’ll be having something of a miserable afternoon, but you’ll live. Perhaps that will be a comfort for you in the midst of your agony. Perhaps not. It’s not really any of my concern. The key to this punishment, you see, is not merely its severity, but its finality. There’s no use for me to give it any thought beyond the decision to administer, and there’s no use for you to beg or try to make amends. Think of it like an avalanche. Once it’s set in motion, there’s no taking it back, and there’s no stopping it. For five to six hours, anyway, depending on your metabolism. And it will bury you.”

  He reached into his suit pocket for the auto-injector he always carried during training, held it up for Mathias to see. The man’s eyes widened, pupils dilating, chest heaving. But when Nikolai laid his free hand over Mathias’s heart, he held still.

  “In the hands of a lesser man, I’d almost call it lazy, because it forces the one who administers it to stand by their decisions. A shortcut to pitilessness for the spineless, you could say. Well, I’m not a weak-willed man. This isn’t for me, it’s for you. I want you to know with absolute certainty that I will never take your pain away. No one will ever take pity on you again. The only way to save yourself now is to obey. Fully. Instantly. Forever.”

  He jammed the injector against Mathias’s hip and got out of the way before the man’s scream had time to form. Flailing limbs would follow; he wouldn’t be able to help himself, no matter the threat against his brother, no matter his pride.

  Sure enough, Mathias thrashed, screamed, screamed again, eyes wide and wild, rolling and wailing like a spooked horse. Nikolai stood by and watched, waiting for Mathias to exhaust himself enough to still. He took no pleasure in the man’s agony, but nor did it upset him.

  What did upset him was the fact that he had another project to attend to, one he didn’t want but was saddled with anyway. He’d have liked to send for a cup of tea and sit through Mathias’s suffering, but he had places to be. A few minutes more. Just to see how his new dog took to the drug. And then he’d go. He promised himself he’d go.

  Two minutes passed. Three. Five. Mathias was still thrashing, panting, moaning, jaw and eyes and fists clenched, tears leaking down his cheeks. Nikolai had to hand it to him—the man had stamina.

  That might get irritating, and fast.

  Eight minutes. Twelve. He really did have somewhere else to be; he should’ve finished his speech before he’d injected the man.

  At sixteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds, Mathias went silent and still. Nikolai sat on the edge of the bed and rolled him from his side onto his back. He moaned like a dying animal. His sweat soaked Nikolai’s palm.

  “Look at me, Mathias.”

  Mathias’s head rolled on the pillow, and he blinked open glassy eyes.

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” No answer, of course. He’d probably already lost his voice. “A proprietary blend of neurotransmitters responsible for carrying pain signals to the brain, some remarkable—but harmless—chemical irritants derived from a variety of pepper plants, and a time-release stimulant to keep you awake to enjoy it all. The pain will build over the next half hour or so as the serum is absorbed from the muscle into the bloodstream, although I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that the fire you feel in your hip now will fade. In about four hours, the serum will start to break down. In five or so, you’ll stop wishing I’d simply killed you. I’ll come to see you again in six, and we’ll have a little chat. Hopefully it will go better than our first one did.”

  He patted Mathias quite deliberately on the hip, right over the injection site, and watched him lurch and whimper.

  “In the meanwhile, I do believe I’ll introduce myself to your brother. Or whatever’s left of him after the last few days, I suppose. I’m feeling very optimistic about his future here.”

  Roger had parked the RV in the garage and left it there, empty except for its one hidden occupant. The boy wasn’t to be touched or talked to by anyone but Nikolai, a little like a baby bird fallen from its nest. Now that Mathias was settled, it was time for Nikolai to make that crucial first connection. He stopped in the kitchen to collect two bottles of water, and then he headed alone for the garage.

  The RV was disgusting inside. Oh, it was tidy enough, but it smelled like cum and fear. Absolutely vile. He’d have Roger clean it top to bottom once he was done here, and he hoped he could be done very, very soon.

  He went to the false wall of cupboards, feeling along the edges and crannies until he found the switch to open the door to the secret room. Inhale. Exude confidence and kindness. To any other man it would be unsettling, switching from torturer to savior in a breath. Exhale.

  He opened the door.

  A bar of light fell on the floor of the room, widening and widening as the door opened, until a foot, and then an ankle and calf, came into view. A knee. A hip. Arms wrapped around a lean, naked torso. A face. Soft jaw and lush, chapped lips molded around a ball gag. Eyes scrunched shut against the light. Peeking open hesitantly as they adjusted.

  Nikolai crouched, not yet revealing the water. “Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured, extending a hand as he would to a beaten dog. “Come here, love. I won’t hurt you.”

  No recognition yet. No understanding. The boy was half feral, three-quarters dead of dehydration, probably not yet fully aware of the fact that Nikolai wasn’t a hallucination.

  “Shhh, it’s all right. I’m real. I’m here to help you.” He put the water down just outside the door, took the key to the gag’s lock from his pocket, crawled into the tight space and reached around behind Douglas’s head to remove the foul thing. Douglas cringed from him, whimpered, the sound little more than a sandpaper rasp in his dry throat.

  “Shhh,” Nikolai said again. He unlocked and unbuckled the gag by feel, peeled it gently away. He’d not missed the scabbing on Douglas’s scalp beneath the buckle, the sores at the corners of his mouth, the bloody cracks in his lips.

  When the ball slipped free, Douglas poked a dry tongue out and tried to soothe his aching mouth. He had trouble closing it after so long held open, whimpered brokenly at the pain of trying. Nikolai stroked his cheek, cupped his chin, and helped him. Reached for a bottle of water and screwed the cap off.

  Douglas’s eyes finally focused on that, huge and hungry and desperate. His lips moved, and a soft whuff of air pushed past them. No sound, but Nikolai knew what he was trying to say: Please.

  “It’s all right, I’ll help you.” He cradled the back of Douglas’s head in one hand, brought the bottle to his lips with the other. Tipped it just enough to moisten his mouth. Watched Douglas’s throat work as he swallowed, watched his eyes drift closed in blissful relief and aching need. Tipped a little more water into his mouth—a mere capful, wouldn’t do to make him sick—and nudged the boy’s hands away when he tried to grasp for the bottle. “Easy now,” he cautioned. “I’ve got you.”

  Whining, root
ing sounds. Like a baby at the teat. Nikolai sighed in pleasure—he much preferred the role of savior to torturer.

  More hungry gulps. Nikolai meted the water out slowly lest the boy’s body reject it. He was in no hurry, could happily cradle Douglas all day (well, until Mathias’s serum wore off, at least) while the boy sipped and sighed and silently begged for more, slowly reviving in Nikolai’s arms.

  Too soon, the bottle was gone. Douglas practically climbed Nikolai’s body, searching for more.

  Nikolai laughed as he gave him the second bottle, thrilled by the easy trust he received. No suspicion. No fight. The boy needed water. Nikolai offered it. The boy drank and was grateful. Nikolai was grateful too, for a pet so willing to eat from his hand even at this early stage. If this was what two weeks of seemingly senseless torture could bring about, what could he achieve in months of carefully administered training?

  “There, there,” he murmured when the second bottle was gone, and his new boy latched onto his neck, pressing his face to Nikolai’s collar. “I’m going to take care of you now. Other people abandoned you here. I won’t abandon you anywhere. Ever.”

  He felt the head pressed to his body nod, and then a full-body tremble. Sobs. Tears of happiness—he no doubt thought Nikolai was here to rescue him. He was, in a way . . . just not the way the boy was hoping for.

  Nikolai shushed and petted him, and then he lifted him in his arms and carried him back to the house. Back to his own rooms, up the stairs to his en suite, where Roger had run a hot, frothy bath.

  Nikolai lowered him gingerly into the water, then stripped his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Knelt at the tub’s side and began to wash him, the same way Douglas would one day beg to wash Nikolai. And Nikolai would let him. To be attended by such a beautiful, sensitive boy . . .

  He hummed in pleasure, echoing the sounds Douglas made as Nikolai dragged the soapy sponge across the white expanse of his boy’s back.

  At last, Douglas spoke. “They left me to die,” he rasped, staring into the shifting foam on the water’s surface. “They . . . abandoned me. My brother . . .”

  “Abandoned you, yes.”

  “He’d never—”

  “He did. Do you blame him, after what you did to him?”

  Douglas hung his wet head, droplets falling from his hair like tears. “No,” he whispered. “I didn’t have a choice, didn’t he understand? I didn’t have a choice!”

  “Shhh, I know.” He kept his voice low, and smooth, and very calm. Hypnotizing. The hysterical tension drained out of his boy’s body again. “I understand. Nobody else will, but I do. I’ll never judge you for the choices you’ve had to make, or will have to make. You aren’t perfect, Douglas, and it’s cruel that people expect you to be. You’re flawed, but that’s what makes you so beautiful to me.”

  He cupped the back of the boy’s head, leaned in close, and pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth. And then, because he was a weak man, and a little bit imperfect himself, he pressed another, this time right on top of the chapped, slowly moving lips.

  Trying to speak. No sound coming out. The picture of acquiescence. Perfection.

  But then his new boy pulled away, brow furrowed. Perhaps he’d pushed Douglas’s trust too far, so he too pulled back, smiled gently at him, brushed a dripping strand of hair from his crinkled forehead. Nikolai held his breath and his smile, waiting to see if the boy would ask inconvenient questions—Did you buy me? or Would you please take me to the police now?—but, as he’d suspected, Douglas was too addled, too overwhelmed to make the final connection between his instinctive unease and the reality of his situation.

  Perfect. If only that could last forever.

  “Fear for nothing,” Nikolai said. “I’ll take care of you.” And then he was helping Douglas out of the bath, toweling him off, and carrying him again, this time into his private bedroom. His own bed.

  Once the boy recovered, it would be a good long while before he’d earn the right to return here. But for now, a little indulgence wouldn’t go amiss. Nikolai tucked him in and combed a hand through his hair, easing him down to sleep with a softly hummed lullaby. He’d have someone fetch them both lunch—broth for Douglas and something heartier for himself—in an hour or two, but for now he’d let the boy sleep in safety, probably for the first time since he’d been taken.

  Nikolai had lied. It’d been days, months, fucking years since he’d drugged Mat and left him to die in the worst kind of agony he’d ever known. Not five or six hours. No way could it’ve only been five or six hours. No way could this . . . poison not kill him. The fucker had been right about one thing, though: he did want to die. Anything to make this end.

  He whimpered and curled up tighter as a cramp ripped through his gut, whimpered again as the motion set glass grinding in his joints and tearing through muscle and skin.

  Fire. Crushing pressure. Wave upon wave of pain, evolving and taking new shapes, striking and receding and striking again, twice as strong for its regrouping. The impossible task of fighting it took so much focus, so much energy, he didn’t notice when Nikolai came back. Hadn’t heard the door open and close, hadn’t heard the chair scrape against the floor. He simply pried his eyes open during a minor ebb and saw the man there.

  Or maybe he was just hallucinating. God knew anything that hurt this badly for this long could fuck with your head.

  “Slow metabolism,” Nikolai commented, checking his watch. “You must work hard to maintain your physique.”

  Of course he worked hard, but not because of his fucking metabolism. It was his job, and Dougie depended on him. In fact, he’d actually lose weight if he wasn’t careful. But drugs—even common ones like caffeine and antihistamines—always affected him hard.

  He didn’t bother trying to say any of that, though. If he unclenched his jaw, he’d scream.

  “That hate in your eyes right now. You must never lose it. It’s why I bought you. The way you looked at the camera while Madame’s doctor fucked you.”

  Fuck him. Seriously. Fuck him and his bland fucking smile and his cold fucking eyes and his brutal fucking cruelty and his bullshit fucking threats. He probably didn’t even have Dougie. Hadn’t he said he didn’t want him? And if he did have him, where was he? He hadn’t been in the RV, wasn’t anywhere in the house Mat had seen. And if he had been out of sight, he’d have called to Mat if he were there. He’d have yelled. No, it was just one more manipulative ploy, one more lie to get him to behave because Nikolai knew damn well Mat would fucking kill him otherwise.

  No guards in sight. I bet the key to the shackle is in his pocket.

  Besides, how could he hurt anyone anymore if he’s dead?

  Mat curled up tighter, tucking his hands beneath him. Not-really-at-all-faked another whimper. He’d kill him. He’d do what Coach Darryl had taught him to, what had made him so promising in the ring when he was young: He’d strike while Nikolai thought him at his weakest. He’d ignore the pain, if only long enough to do what he needed to do. He’d snap Nikolai’s fucking neck and take the shackle key and find the nearest cop and rescue Dougie. He’d never let anyone hurt either of them like this again.

  The mere thought of having to endure this agony a second time gave him the strength he needed to overcome it now. He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Body tensed—already had been for hours anyway—feet subtly planted on the mattress . . .

  And pounced.

  The shackle caught. Jerked. Fuck! He wasn’t fast enough, didn’t have enough reach, and Nikolai calmly danced out of his way, grinning a fucking awful grin as Mat hit the floor chin first, screaming as his ankle broke in the hard grasp of the shackle. Everything else hurt so goddamn much he barely noticed.

  “I had planned to have a civilized conversation with you,” Nikolai said, stepping in close again and mashing Mat’s right hand against the floor beneath the heel of his dress shoe. Mat screamed again, too exhausted to hold it back, too exhausted to fight anymore. He’d had one chance, and he
’d blown it. Now he couldn’t even get up, could barely think around the pain in his hand and his ankle and his fucking everywhere. Just wanted to curl up and cry. Die. Whichever.

  The pressure left his hand as Nikolai paced to the bed, prodded at Mat’s ankle. “Be glad it’s not broken,” he said, and how was that possible when every touch and jostle was so fucking excruciating? “I don’t take kindly to my property being damaged.”

  “I . . . am not . . . your property.” His hands, pressed flat to the floor, curled into fists. “And neither is my brother. You don’t . . . you don’t even have him, do you? Fucker. You’ve got nothing on me.” Nothing but pain, and I can beat that. I always have.

  Nikolai squatted down beside him, pressed a hard hand to the back of his neck. “That’s a good lie to tell yourself. When I sell you, your master will love to hear you rage against him so, deny his ownership of you. It might even save you pain. But you must never believe it. Accept your fate, or it will destroy you.”

  Nikolai lifted his hand, wiped Mat’s sweat off his palm with the pocket square from his suit jacket, and pulled his cell phone from a clip on his belt. A few touches and swipes later, and the phone was in Mat’s face.

  It took him a moment to process what he was seeing. Everything hurt too much, and he was sprawled naked on the fucking floor of a madman’s home, one leg dangling by a shackle, trying to fight through a haze of exhaustion and agony and far too much accumulated panic.

  Dougie. Nikolai was showing him Dougie.

  No.

  “Oh yes,” Nikolai replied.

  He looked dead. Lying still and naked and pale in a fancy bed like some kind of . . . some kind of doll to be hugged and squeezed and treasured.

  And played with. Raped.

  “You didn’t . . .” Mat gasped. Could barely speak; he’d screamed himself hoarse ten times over since he’d gotten here, and fear seized his throat besides. “. . . poison him?” He reached out with a shaking hand, curled desperate fingers around Nikolai’s forearm. The broken glass shifted in his joints, but he didn’t squeeze. Can’t hurt him can’t hurt him he has Dougie can’t hurt him . . .