Loyalties (3 page)

And then he fell into Roger’s arms.

He hadn’t meant to do that either, really. Maybe the shock or the adrenaline had weakened his knees, or maybe he was just feeling sappy from all the reminiscing, or maybe some part of him was happy to have survived and wanted to share that primitive joy with the only kind person left in an increasingly cruel world.

Roger didn’t say anything. Didn’t back away and leave him cold. Just enfolded Mat against his big solid body and . . . held him. God,
held him
. Mat hadn’t realized how much he’d missed being touched by someone who wasn’t using that touch to hurt him. Or to lull him into a sense of false security just to hurt him more.

None of that. This touch was comfort and understanding, and all the things Mat once used to seek in the arms of men.

“You’re all right,” Roger said, gruff voice full of masculine tenderness, and
that
, after everything that had happened today, the last few weeks or months, was what finally broke Mat.

He clutched at Roger’s shoulders, pressed his body to Roger’s, and slammed their mouths together in the most desperate kiss of his life. He
wanted
this. Wanted this connection, wanted to know there was something left to live for. Not Roger himself, but what Roger symbolized: the freedom to love and touch and need and be needed, and to do it of his own free will. Not that Roger wasn’t a good outlet for those urges—he was kind and handsome and kind and strong and kind and had a gentle smile and beautiful green eyes. Out in the real world, it wasn’t completely out of the question that Mat might have picked him up at a bar.

He wondered what Roger had been like before he’d come to this place. Would there ever be any chance for them to meet outside these walls? Would it be
real
? Or had this place tainted everything,
ruined
everything, twisted them both around so hard they couldn’t even tell what they were looking at anymore? He’d backed Roger all the way across the room, backed him into the wall, had his hands tangled in Roger’s soft blond hair and his tongue shoved halfway down his throat and his cock grinding hard into the line of Roger’s hip and thigh and this was a man who’d tied him down against his will once upon a time,
I don’t have permission to feel sorry for you
, stood by and watched as he’d been raped and beaten and raped again and how was it that Mat couldn’t even bring himself to care about that now, to care about anything but the slight minty taste of Roger against his tongue and the softness of his lips and the firmness of him beneath his need—

But apparently Roger cared. It finally got through to Mat that Roger was trying to push him away. Not panicked, not even struggling, not really.
No, of course not, how can you rape a fuck-toy?
Just . . . insistent. Firm, but gentle. Mat wondered how often Roger had the option of refusing sex, and God, giving him that had to be just as important as him giving Mat the option to
choose
sex.

Mat pulled off with a gasp. “Sorry,” he panted, wiping at his mouth and stepping away, giving Roger as much space as he could. “Sorry, I . . . I don’t know what—”

“Shush.” No rancor, though. All kindness. Mat noticed that Roger hadn’t bothered to wipe
his
mouth. That Roger’s full cock was pressing hard against the confines of his jeans. Breathless relief at that, that he hadn’t forced him, hadn’t hurt him. Roger took a step forward. Another. Re-closing the distance between them. “It’s all right.” He was in Mat’s space now. Reached out and touched Mat’s arm. “But I love someone else, you know that. And even if I didn’t . . .”

Roger cast his eyes down and to the side for a moment—not so much sad or even resigned as just . . . habit, maybe. He didn’t finish his sentence, but Mat knew anyway:
I belong to someone else. This body isn’t mine to give.

“I’m sorry,” Mat said again, horrified that he’d even
tried
to take something he knew Roger didn’t own, couldn’t offer. But he’d needed it, God, he
still
needed it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Now that he’d let himself say it, he couldn’t seem to stop saying it. “Please just . . .” Forget it? Forgive me? Hold me? He didn’t know. He shook his head, stepped into Roger’s space in a silent plea, and of course Roger’s arms came up around him, so warm and giving. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled again into the side of Roger’s neck, feeling the tears well without knowing where they were coming from or how to stop them. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .”

Roger shushed him gently, walked him backward until his knees hit the mattress and he tumbled over, Roger beside him, still holding on as if he knew Mat would fall to pieces without him. Fuck it, Mat was falling to pieces anyway, and all he could do was hold on, and he didn’t know whether he would hang up his noose again or if he would starve himself or if he would finally give in to Nikolai’s demands and become a man like Roger. Whatever it was, what was one more day of it? He’d suffered so much already, and anyway it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve to suffer, not after what he’d done, and maybe he couldn’t have anything down here but at least someone was holding him with love as he cried. One more day . . . What was one more day?

He’d let himself die tomorrow, if it came to that.

Roger, brilliant thing that he was, had talked Mathias out of hanging himself. After that, Nikolai kept a close eye on the camera feeds for Mathias’s room, and though no more suicide attempts were forthcoming throughout the day or night, the man also didn’t make any moves toward recovery. He still wasn’t eating. Still wasn’t getting out of bed. His beautiful muscular body had begun to waste away this past week and change. And yet Nikolai knew there was nothing he could
do
to that body that would cause Mathias more pain than he was feeling right now. No way to motivate him by shouts or threats or punishments. How to motivate a man through pain when it was pain that he craved the most?

Fortunately, he’d long since put his contingency plan into motion by introducing Roger’s care and affection to Mathias. It was quite the shame he actually had to go through with its final stage, though.

He took a walk to clear his head and focus his resolve, sun shining bright above but cold wind howling through the trees. He stayed out in it longer than was comfortable—his own little taste of self-flagellation, perhaps, for what he’d have to do next.

Roger was waiting for him when he returned to the house, standing in the foyer, a chastising smile on his lips and a mug of hot chocolate—homemade, of course, not the powdered trash—cradled in his hands. He held it out wordlessly and Nikolai took it, warmth blossoming in his heart along with his stomach as he took a first, careful sip. Not too hot to drink. He took a longer sip. Stared at Roger over the rim of the mug. So beautiful, still, even after all these years. So
perfect
in very nearly every way. Nikolai felt near to bursting with pride. Affection. And yes, love.

Regret, too, for what was about to come.

He allowed himself one last sip of his drink, then set the mug down on the table by the door. “I’m afraid it’s time,” he said.

Roger’s smile fell a little, but he wasn’t afraid, and he didn’t pull his gaze from Nikolai’s. “I agree, Sir.” He swallowed hard, once. Held Nikolai’s eyes.

Nikolai thought of taking Roger up to his bedroom for this, but he didn’t want to do it there. Didn’t want to pollute that sacred space with the memory of what was to come. On the other hand, he wanted Roger to be as comfortable as possible. His den, then, where Roger had happily spent so many hours curled on the couch beside him or at his feet beneath his desk, head resting on his thigh.

He led Roger there with a caressing hand at the small of his back. Roger began to undress the moment Nikolai had closed the door behind them. Folded his clothes so neatly, took so much care. The same care he showed with everything—and everyone—in his life. A natural nurturer. Nikolai was blessed to have found him.

When Roger was totally naked, Nikolai sucked in a deep breath and unbuckled his belt. Pulled it from its loops. Wrapped the ends around his fist. He took two steps toward Roger but then stopped. Just took him in in all his beauty, his openness, his honesty, his devotion. Stunning.
Breathtaking.

“It’s going to work, Sir,” Roger assured him. How could he be so calm in the face of what was coming? “It
will
. I’ve spent enough time with Mathias these last two weeks to know. I’m sure of it, Sir.”

Nikolai took another deep breath, forced himself to close the final distance between himself and Roger. “I know,” he said. He believed it, too. He wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t. He huffed a dull laugh, flashed a dull smile. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Roger smiled back, not dull at all. “No, Sir,” he agreed.

Nikolai took one more step, until he was close enough to see the pulse fluttering hummingbird-quick at Roger’s throat, belying his outward calm. Close enough to feel the heat of him. He cupped Roger’s face with the hand not holding the belt, leaned in slowly, and kissed him. Gentle, no tongue, just . . . affection, gratitude, love, strength. Roger sighed into his parted lips, and Nikolai murmured, “I’m sorry,” against the man’s mouth.

Roger pulled back just enough to meet Nikolai’s eyes, and said, “I’m not.”
For you, Sir. Anything for you.

Nikolai nodded once in acknowledgment, stepped back, and swung the first strike.

There were no windows down here, but Nikolai had kept Dougie to a pretty regular schedule for some time now, and his body had adjusted to the new rhythm. Plus, Nikolai had brought him an alarm clock last week—
Always be ready for your master in the morning
—and he’d taken to setting it for 6:30, getting showered and shaved and tidied before Nikolai’s arrival with breakfast an hour later.

But it was 8:15 now, and he’d been kneeling at the foot of his neatly made bed for forty-five minutes, and all he had to show for it was stiff shoulders and a sore back and knees and a tingling in his feet that told him they’d both fallen asleep. No Nikolai. No breakfast.

I hope he’s okay.

Dougie shifted minutely, trying to restore circulation to his toes without breaking position. Realized with a jolt of warmth—no, more than that: hope, triumph—that his unbidden thought for Nikolai’s welfare had been genuine. Was still genuine. And Dougie
genuinely
missed him. Not just because he was hungry and sore and accustomed to a certain routine, but because he missed just talking with Nikolai, talking to him and spending time with him. Not necessarily the sex, but everything else, and with that Dougie could almost believe that missing the sex would follow too. In time.

Forty-five minutes he’d been kneeling here, weeks he’d been in Nikolai’s care. From the moment Nikolai had pulled him from the dark living death of his tomb and given him water, to the day he’d punched his own client to protect him, to the morning of Dougie’s first nature hike when Nikolai had been watchful enough to protect Dougie from himself—he’d never, ever let Dougie down. Never left him to fend for himself. Never left him alone. He wouldn’t now, either, Dougie was sure of it, and that thought brought with it a new jolt of warmth and hope. He could do this. It was happening. Nikolai was helping him to make it happen. And he didn’t hate himself and he didn’t hate the world and he
certainly
didn’t hate Nikolai. No disgust, no self-recrimination. Just a strange sort of peace, of patience—a carefree, worriless existence the likes of which he hadn’t known since the day his parents had died. It was all happening exactly the way Nikolai had promised him it would way back at the beginning. All he had to do now was wait. All he’d ever needed to do was wait.

For Nikolai.