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trying.
    But he supposed that was why Nikolai had gagged and tied him in the first place. The fucking bastard. He’d promised to let them see each other; he hadn’t promised to let them speak to or comfort one another. He hadn’t promised not to turn their meeting into another torture—to the contrary, in fact; he’d warned Mat to be careful what he wished for.
    I should’ve known. I should’ve seen this coming somehow .
    Now if he could just get out of this fucking chair. He was pretty sure he understood why Dougie hadn’t untied him, why Dougie probably wouldn’t untie him. No mistaking the confusion, the torment in his brother’s eyes. The self-recrimination. The helplessness. The desire to please Nikolai, the fear of failure. This whole setup might’ve made Dougie question, but it wasn’t going to make him risk more than that. So Mat would be stuck in this fucking chair all night, wouldn’t he. Probably end up pissing himself. He balled his hands into fists and twisted his wrists again, glad for a moment of the penis gag to bite down on when pain flared breathlessly sharp in his torn skin. Nikolai would punish him for doing that to himself, but he didn’t fucking care, wasn’t even afraid of the serum, not if it meant he could get his hands free, get this gag off, talk Dougie back to him, back to sanity, to resistance, to escape.
    No dice, though. The rope was thick, the knots solid. Maybe if his skin got slippery enough and the ropes wet enough—enough sweat, enough blood—he could pull his way free. How much time did he have left to try? Dougie’s room, unlike his own, had a clock for some reason. Six thirty. Dinnertime.
    He went back to flexing and torquing his wrists. Ignored the pain, ignored the trembling in his overtaxed muscles, ignored everything but the goal. He thought maybe the left rope was starting to feel a little looser. Not enough to pull free as of yet, but progress was progress. Keep at it. Don’t think. Just do.
    It was after seven when next he looked up, breathless and bloody, unable to continue without at least a few minutes of rest. His body had had enough, arms and chest and back muscles so overtaxed he could barely move. The pain was starting to poke through his concentration with barbed hooks. And Jesus, was Dougie still in the fucking shower? What was he doing in there? Why was it taking so long?
    Was he . . . was he okay?
    Oh God, what if he wasn’t okay? What if he wasn’t okay and it was Mat’s fucking fault for insisting he be allowed to see Dougie when Dougie clearly wasn’t in a position to cope with it?
    Mat had to get out of this fucking chair. Had to be sure for himself. Had to be the big brother. He rocked forward, the soles of his feet hitting the floor, then pushed himself back with every ounce of strength he could muster.
    Let himself fall.

    Dougie heard the crash even over the running water. He froze, listening. Held his breath. There it was again, accompanied by a muffled shout. Mat. What was he fucking doing out there?
    Dougie should go check. Not because he was worried or anything. Just . . . in case.
    He heard another crash as he shut the water off, another muffled yell. And something else this time, a sound like . . . cracking wood?
    Oh no, tell me you didn’t, you damn idiot, tell me you’re not breaking the chair. Nikolai would kill him. Kill them both. He couldn’t be a good boy and do what Nikolai wanted if Mat was wandering free.
    He darted from the shower, snagged a towel along the way and swiped at himself with it as he ran into the bedroom. Found Mat lying dazed on the floor on top of a pile of splintered wood, arms and legs still bound to broken bits of chair, groaning in pain.
    “You idiot!” Dougie shouted, and then he saw the blood on Mat’s arms and wrists and hands. “Oh God, Mat, what have you done? You’re bleeding!” He rushed to his brother’s side and fell to his knees, quickly untangling the wood and rope from Mat’s raw