The Flesh Cartel #3: Choices by Heidi Belleau Read Free Book Online Page A

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