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With nothing more than his hands and brute strength, he pulverized him. Blood sprayed across the wet grimy floor. The other man was dead by the time he hit the ground, his ribcage crushed inwards and his heart and lungs impaled by the very bones meant to protect them. Toran used the dead man’s hair to wipe his hands and then stood.

His dark eyes fell on Jesse’s tiny, quivering body. The naked boy looked up at him through wet eyes. His face was swollen. Bruises were blooming dark purple on his naked back and buttocks. Red blood bled freely between his legs. Toran’s gaze was impassive. He did not move to bridge the gap between them. Neither did Jesse. The other prisoners looked on expectantly. This was not the first public claiming they had seen.

Jesse’s head swam and his eyes felt difficult to hold open. He knew he had a concussion. He felt dazed and confused.

“Come here,” Toran said, flicking his fingers to the spot on the floor beside his boots. Jesse wasn’t upset at being called to heel like a dog. All he knew was that Toran represented safety. He crawled to Toran’s feet, but was too lighthead to keep himself upright and ended up sitting on the floor, clinging to the other man’s legs as the world spun around him.

“Who do you belong to?” the Bull said in a voice that was low and grinding.

“You,” Jesse said quietly because his throat felt sore.

“Tell these men who you belong to.”

Jesse looked up to see the others still watching. Their faces were cold and cruel and most wore amused smirks. Seeing a smaller man beaten and raped, forced to submit and claimed by another was high entertainment to them.

“I belong to To-ran,” Jesse wheezed out, as loudly as he could. Pushing air past his raw vocal cords was sharply painful and he hoped Toran wouldn’t make him say it again. He looked up with tears brimming in his blue eyes.

Toran’s smile was all teeth. He looked feral. His big hand threaded into Jesse’s soft blond hair and pulled his head back so that everyone could see his face- battered but still lovely.

“This is mine. My wife. Any man who touches her dies by my hand,” his deep voice rang loud and powerful. It was quickly eclipsed by the cheering of the other men. They roared and congratulated him. It was now, apparently, a wedding.

Toran abruptly let go of his hair and pushed him. Dizzy and unbalanced, Jesse landed on his palms, then weakly slid forward into a sprawl on his belly. The tile was cool on his hot, swollen cheek and he lay there noting the unevenness of the tile. He was vaguely aware of Toran straddling his body and the sound of flesh slapping flesh. There was a grunting noise, then a warm, wet splatter on his back. He winced. He didn’t need to look to know it was semen. The sticky mess trickled slowly down the curve of his spine and hip before being rinsed away with the hot sting of piss. His new husband was marking him like a dog. Toran was letting the world know Jesse was his bitch.

He didn’t move when Toran lifted him bodily up off the floor and only let out the slightest of whimpers when he was held beneath freezing cold water. He was naked still and aware that there was something he needed to do to remedy that, but he couldn’t think what it was. Toran was carrying him outside now, still naked, and he wanted to tell him to stop and go back for his clothes, but his tongue was too clumsy to form the words. His brain felt bruised in his skull and he wondered if it was damaged perhaps. He didn’t feel capable of holding on to any one particular thought.

The world looked strange and lopsided to him and that was when he realized one of his eyes had swollen shut. It just seemed easier to close the other one.

That was when Jesse blacked out.

He woke when Toran placed him down on the bed.

“No!” he croaked in fear, his hand reaching out to stop Toran’s wrist as he reached towards him.

“No?” Toran questioned with a raised brow.

Jesse swallowed hard. He didn’t have the right to refuse this man anything, not now. “I’m hurt,” he explained softly and released his hold on Toran’s wrist.

“And I intend to inspect the damage and treat as necessary. You will allow me to do so.”

His voice was hard and left no room for argument. Jesse laid back and stared at the room around him. It was dark and lit by nothing more than a single candle. The shadows danced on the walls and ceiling. The trusses seemed to move overhead.

He hardly noticed when Toran snapped the shackle from about his wrist. He murmured in protest but the reasons felt fuzzy.

“You won’t need it anymore,” Toran explained gently as though he were talking to someone slow in the head. Jesse closed his eyes again, so he didn’t see what Toran did with it.

He kept his eyes closed and so Jesse felt rather like a doll as he was manipulated and moved around. Toran started with his face, touching his temples and cheeks, pressing on the bruises and bones underneath. He made him open his mouth and took hold of some of his teeth between his thumb and forefinger. Once satisfied none had been knocked loose, he moved on to Jesse’s neck and chest. Each rib was palpated and Toran made him take several deep, painful breaths. “Just bruised,” he muttered to himself and continued on.

He examined his raw hands and swollen knuckles, extending each finger individually to check its mobility. They were still stiff and each full extension was painful. He noted the gash across Jesse’s bicep and opened a jar he held in his hand. He swiped a small amount of nasty-smelling paste across the red, puffy edges of the wound. It stung badly. Toran’s dark eyes took in the bruises on Jesse’s knees and even the blisters on the backs of his heels. He seemed to be quantifying and categorizing the injuries, like an owner upset over the damage to a prized possession.

Jesse held himself together for as long as he could, but when Toran forced him over onto his belly. that was when he began to fall apart. He could still feel his eyes on him, moving over his bare skin from the top of his head to his feet and then up again. He choked on his breath when Toran’s large hands closed over his buttocks. His thumbs dug into the plump muscles and pulled them apart so that Jesse’s wounded hole was exposed. Just the touch of the cold air on his torn flesh made it burn anew.

The boy’s hands fisted in the covers and he buried his face so that the upwelling sob might be muffled. It wasn’t. It rang loud in the quiet cabin and so did the next one and the next one. Jesse was mortified by the gut-wrenching sounds of his ragged crying, but he was unable to stop himself. His tears soaked the bed beneath him.

He wailed when Toran applied some of the stinging paste to his asshole and tried to buck away. Toran held him down easily with a firm hand on the center of his back. A finger prodded at his hole and when it rubbed the medicine into the torn flesh, it felt like fire. Jesse screamed as it probed deep into his bruised rectum and carried with it a stinging burn. By the time it withdrew, the burn had dulled into an ache.

“It’ll prevent infection. After you have a bowel movement, it’s important you wash and reapply.”

Toran stood. He rolled Jesse back over onto his back. The boy stared blearily up through his one good eye. His nose was filled with snot, his bruised eye socket ached, his head pounded and so many other parts of his body hurt that they all bled together into one overwhelming throb.