thought he’d miss this place?
Mat couldn’t afford to think about that possibility right now. Not how true it probably was, not how big a role he himself had no doubt played in it, not how he’d ever figure out how to make things right again. He needed to be sharp now. Alert. Keep them alive and get them the fuck off this mountain. He could deal with the fallout after they were both safe. Right after he found a knife or scissors or something to cut this fucking gag off his face. It wasn’t just about how uncomfortable it was, or how it constantly left him feeling on the edge of choking, or how it made it hard to breathe every time he looked at Dougie broken and begging and he teared up too. No, it was how fucking close to shattering Dougie was, and how much Mat needed to be able to talk to him, talk him down, tell him everything he should’ve said that awful, awful night with Mr. Baseball Bat.
Fix things. He had to fucking fix things.
Somehow.
God, they’d work it out, they always had. Mat refused to believe that this was less fixable than the deaths of their parents or Dougie being taken into foster care. He just needed to be able to talk. To comfort Dougie in a way that touches couldn’t.
He looked over his shoulder again. Dougie was still behind him, eyes wet and shining in the dim light that streaked out from under the door at the top of the stairs. Would that door be unlocked too? Were they that lucky? God, were they lucky at all, or was this some kind of fucking trick? Would there be attack dogs at the top of the stairs, waiting to tear them apart for their betrayal?
No. We’re too expensive for that.
Still, he didn’t trust it. Couldn’t.
Maybe Nikolai would be waiting at the top of the stairs. Or the guards. Only one way to find out though, and at this point, they didn’t have much more to lose and a whole hell of a lot to gain.
How much more could Nikolai punish them? Could that ever outweigh their chance at freedom? Mat cast one more look at Dougie over his shoulder, still fucking crying (although at least he was doing it quietly)—just at the thought of leaving this place?—and decided it was worth the risk. Because it was either risk it, or leave Dougie to lose himself entirely. Tonight, Dougie had refused to rape him. Would he do the same again tomorrow?
Mat crept up the stairs, shifted both sticks into one hand, and put out his other hand to signal for Dougie to wait below while Mat put his ear to the door. No sounds of stirring at all.
Okay. Here goes. Lady Luck, don’t fail me now.
Mat took the knob in hand.
Turned it.
Raised his weapons.
The door swung open, revealing . . . nothing at all of note. An empty cupboard, and outside of that, an empty hall. He gestured to Dougie to climb the stairs, stared out at the hall again. Right or left? Mat barely remembered the house’s layout, and turned to Dougie for help. He needed to get this fucking gag off. He pointed at the straps. Made a scissoring motion with his hand.
“The kitchen?” Dougie whispered back. “Left.”
So Mat turned left, but froze when Dougie’s hand caught his wrist. When Mat turned to see what was the matter, Dougie shook his head until fresh tears fell. “We can’t,” he whispered. “I forgot. Jeremy.”
Jeremy must be the cook. The one who made Mat all those surprisingly not-bland meals of lean protein and complex carbs.
What, the fucking guy cooks in the middle of the night? He was really starting to wish Dougie could muster up the energy for some full fucking sentences. It wasn’t fair to be angry at him, he knew that, but he needed more information and couldn’t ask for it, and Dougie wasn’t fucking volunteering it.
But then, suddenly, he did. “His bedroom’s off the kitchen. I . . . I’ve spent some nights there. He never shuts his door.”
Mat didn’t want to know why. He just reached out with one hand to cup Dougie’s cheek and hoped that would serve as comfort. The way Dougie closed
Mat couldn’t afford to think about that possibility right now. Not how true it probably was, not how big a role he himself had no doubt played in it, not how he’d ever figure out how to make things right again. He needed to be sharp now. Alert. Keep them alive and get them the fuck off this mountain. He could deal with the fallout after they were both safe. Right after he found a knife or scissors or something to cut this fucking gag off his face. It wasn’t just about how uncomfortable it was, or how it constantly left him feeling on the edge of choking, or how it made it hard to breathe every time he looked at Dougie broken and begging and he teared up too. No, it was how fucking close to shattering Dougie was, and how much Mat needed to be able to talk to him, talk him down, tell him everything he should’ve said that awful, awful night with Mr. Baseball Bat.
Fix things. He had to fucking fix things.
Somehow.
God, they’d work it out, they always had. Mat refused to believe that this was less fixable than the deaths of their parents or Dougie being taken into foster care. He just needed to be able to talk. To comfort Dougie in a way that touches couldn’t.
He looked over his shoulder again. Dougie was still behind him, eyes wet and shining in the dim light that streaked out from under the door at the top of the stairs. Would that door be unlocked too? Were they that lucky? God, were they lucky at all, or was this some kind of fucking trick? Would there be attack dogs at the top of the stairs, waiting to tear them apart for their betrayal?
No. We’re too expensive for that.
Still, he didn’t trust it. Couldn’t.
Maybe Nikolai would be waiting at the top of the stairs. Or the guards. Only one way to find out though, and at this point, they didn’t have much more to lose and a whole hell of a lot to gain.
How much more could Nikolai punish them? Could that ever outweigh their chance at freedom? Mat cast one more look at Dougie over his shoulder, still fucking crying (although at least he was doing it quietly)—just at the thought of leaving this place?—and decided it was worth the risk. Because it was either risk it, or leave Dougie to lose himself entirely. Tonight, Dougie had refused to rape him. Would he do the same again tomorrow?
Mat crept up the stairs, shifted both sticks into one hand, and put out his other hand to signal for Dougie to wait below while Mat put his ear to the door. No sounds of stirring at all.
Okay. Here goes. Lady Luck, don’t fail me now.
Mat took the knob in hand.
Turned it.
Raised his weapons.
The door swung open, revealing . . . nothing at all of note. An empty cupboard, and outside of that, an empty hall. He gestured to Dougie to climb the stairs, stared out at the hall again. Right or left? Mat barely remembered the house’s layout, and turned to Dougie for help. He needed to get this fucking gag off. He pointed at the straps. Made a scissoring motion with his hand.
“The kitchen?” Dougie whispered back. “Left.”
So Mat turned left, but froze when Dougie’s hand caught his wrist. When Mat turned to see what was the matter, Dougie shook his head until fresh tears fell. “We can’t,” he whispered. “I forgot. Jeremy.”
Jeremy must be the cook. The one who made Mat all those surprisingly not-bland meals of lean protein and complex carbs.
What, the fucking guy cooks in the middle of the night? He was really starting to wish Dougie could muster up the energy for some full fucking sentences. It wasn’t fair to be angry at him, he knew that, but he needed more information and couldn’t ask for it, and Dougie wasn’t fucking volunteering it.
But then, suddenly, he did. “His bedroom’s off the kitchen. I . . . I’ve spent some nights there. He never shuts his door.”
Mat didn’t want to know why. He just reached out with one hand to cup Dougie’s cheek and hoped that would serve as comfort. The way Dougie closed
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