Everyday, every 24 hour cycle, was the same.

Beatings, starvation, dehydration dizzy spells. Time fused itself together, becoming a vacuum in which nothing but the tortuous proclivities existed.

Commander Rorke’s voice always boomed yards away before he ever got to Logan. Always echoed through his empty mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull like a pathetic ping pong match. It ached and it made his lungs seize up with every inhale of the thick, muggy Amazon air. A horribly Pavlovian response to his captor. At least it wasn’t of the Stockholm type, he figured.

Rorke had taken it upon himself the last several days to talk Logan’s ear off, instead of his usual cut to the chase conversation style. Logan despised it, half cognizant as it is, and he had to spend every waking minute listening to the guy hammer on about nothing.

It was a different sort of torture. The man never letting on to anything important, anything Logan could use, real information that could help him. What he was listening to on the radio, what he had for breakfast, what Logan would be having for breakfast. Ha, not a damn thing, kid.

Jealousy twisted up his spine like vines of ivy, curling around his bones. Logan was starved, thirsty and ravenous. Delirious, everything ached, every cell in his body suffering.

He just needed to wait for the right second. A Fed getting too close for comfort, screwing up and not locking Logan’s cuffs back on fast enough. Turning around for too long, underestimating him. Anything, anything for Logan to sink his teeth into.

He had no problem toughing it out. The soldier nothing if not methodical, his time would come and he knew it.

This, however, didn’t stop that insatiable little urge that crawled around his brain like the bugs across his skin. The hunger unfathomable, stomach so hollow it was caving in on itself from the inside out, vomiting up nothing but the acidic bile that burned his throat to shreds. Screaming has become useless long ago, but it was near impossible to do now.

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Mud caked nail beds scratched across his stubble lined jaw, grasping at his own skin for any sense of security. Whatever Rorke had injected Logan with, it made his body vibrate from the inside out. Floating on a cloud, somewhere far away from here. Deluded and stupid, the way Rorke had started to like him.

The transportation usually wasn’t an issue. Two Feds flanking the soldier, pulling him up and up and up and dragging him across the forest on two beaten feet. An everyday affair.

Logan looked to the sky, smiling more sweetly than Rorke would ever imagine he could. Confusion, interest, entertainment crossed the Commanders face as he watched his protege being dragged away.

A deep, shrill, ear piercing scream hit his ears quicker than he could comprehend. Logan, no longer looking above himself, lost in a world of his own, but on the ground now, tangled with a fed soldier.

Jaw nearly off its hinges, brittle teeth sinking into supple tanned flesh. Blood pooled around Logan’s mouth, down his chin and neck. Snarling, growling like an animal. Rorke’s blood running cold, even as he pulled the soldier off his men.

Rabid, feral enough to be put down, Rorke very briefly considered. He was nothing but proud.

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Muzzled.

Fucking bastard, Logan thought. Leather strapped around the back of his head and sides of his cheekbones, a preventative measure that almost made him laugh, blood stained teeth shining through.

Rorke gave a little speech, must’ve been real hungry to go and do that, huh. He listened, sure, but he didn’t internalize. Logan ran over the moment again and again. The taste, the feel, the richness of the man’s blood leaking down the back of his throat, someone’s else for a change. Sickening and delightful, his molars had sliced through every bit of it, the taste of sweat slicked flesh still buzzing on his tongue. Sinewy and wiry, but soft enough to swallow, the fed soldier tasted rotten, and Logan craved it more than anything else.

Commander Rorke kept him like that for days. Punishing that little stunt by keeping his jaw closed and wrists bound to his ankles, a leathery whip becoming acquainted with the thick muscle of his back.

Enough time passed, and Logan was granted the privilege of being unmuzzled. The tendons lining his jaw ached, mouth opening and closing like he’d forgotten how to do so.

He waited.

Days and days. Weeks, he couldn’t keep track of time anymore. Silently watching, standing by, until Rorke trusted him again. Trust, or whatever little sick bond they’d built.

Lying in wait, prey stalking its own predator, Logan’s head buzzed with pleasure at the thought.

Rorke tasted different, better, he thought. The commander screamed, and it only made Logan bite harder, utterly thrilled to be tearing the man’s jugular apart.

He’d only wished his brother were here to celebrate. To feast.

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