Shaw squeezed his eyes shut. In his mind, he saw Tucker, drunk, chasing North around the house with the strap for the rest of their lives. He saw Tucker, drunk, in Trace Montenegro’s dorm room, drunk as fuck, laughing about his fucking riddle. He saw Tuck with his head down. Heard Tuck mumbling. Something about a riddle. Oxymoron, something about oxymoron.

“It’s a riddle,” Shaw said, eyes still closed, his head down.

“No fucking riddles.” The blade twisted, and Shaw had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. “Where is it, Shaw? You haven’t used those balls much in your life, but you probably don’t want to lose them.”

Shaw wet his lips. He let his voice drop to a whisper. “What part of the body is an oxymoron?”

“What?” The blade pulled away, and even with his eyes closed, Shaw knew Matty had moved closer—an unthinking reaction to a poorly heard question, the way almost anyone would respond. Almost anyone. “What the fuck did you—”

As hard as he could, Shaw brought his knee up into Matty’s crotch. Matty screamed, hinging at the waist, and Shaw launched himself up. The ropes slid off the back of the chair—Matty hadn’t even bothered tying them around the legs, just a loose wrap around the back so that they slid up and off with no problem—and drove his forehead straight into Matty’s face. The contact imploded Shaw’s brain, a huge flash-bulb blank, but he felt cartilage crumple and blood spray his cheek where Matty’s nose shattered under Shaw’s forehead.

Then Shaw had his eyes open, and he was screaming, “A headbutt, you dumb fuck, a headbutt.” Matty fell, one hand at his crotch, the other pressed to the bloody ruin of his face, and he was screaming. He looked like he’d lost some teeth, but it was hard to tell through all the blood. The knife hit the ground and slid under the sofa.

“Fuck,” Shaw screamed. He didn’t care about quiet anymore. “Fuck!”

Squatting, he twisted, trying to get his bound hands under the couch. His fingers scraped up dust bunnies and the ridges of the floorboards and a crinkling packet that Shaw guessed was leftover from the time he’d let North eat gummy worms up here and—there. His fingers flexed instinctively, tightening around the handle, and Shaw scrambled away. Matty was still on the ground, still blowing bubbles of blood as he screamed, but he was rolling onto his knees, wiping his face.

“I’m going to kill you.” At least, that’s probably what he said. His ruined mouth and nose mangled the words. “You twink faggot, I’m going to kill you.”

And then somehow, against all odds, Matty—churchboy Matty, blond, pretty, delicate Matty—was getting to his feet, staggering, coming after Shaw as Shaw raced down the hall.

Shaw was naked. Barefoot. His arms tied behind his back. Even with a broken nose and a few missing teeth, even with a concussion—Christ, let the little fucker have a concussion at least—Matty would be able to chase Shaw down without any problem. Shaw wouldn’t make it out of the building. Fuck, Shaw wouldn’t make it as far as the kitchen.