Weston's skin was dyed purple and yellow with bruises, pale white strips of untouched flesh peeked through and begged for Roderick's attention. The boys eyes were still colored with defiance, no longer smouldering blue coals, but apparitions of their former selves. Weston's jaw clenched tight when Roderick teased rough fingers across sensitive abused skin.

Roderick had belted the boy down to an old table in an abandoned house that a friend of his father's used to own. Lyle was a good guy, a fishing buddy of his pops, he didn't take kindly to the way Roderick's dad roughed up his son. Lyle was a good 'ole boy at heart though so he always kept his trap shut.

Weston was completely bare and stretched across the table, hands and feet secured with rope Roderick had salvaged from his cruiser before he ditched it. The FBI would be looking for their golden boy and Roderick had no intention of being interrupted or rushed like he had been last time. Weston was all his and bit by precious bit he was dismantling his new toy. When he finally had all the shiney plastic pieces laid out in front of him, he would start to smash them one by one. After that the fun would begin, putting this toy back together just how he wanted it to be.

Roderick had already crushed Weston's notion of security. Twice. He'd easily bypassed the FBI for the second time when he'd slipped through Weston's fingers at the sheriff station. The whole place was in an uproar and it was as easy as cutting through butter to circle back and take their prodigal son right from under their noses.

Weston squirmed uncomfortably and brought Roderick out of his reverie. It was intoxicating to have his nightmare helpless in front of him. He'd always heard his old man say that you should 'confront your demons' and doing so was proving quite satisfying. This creature that had haunted his dreams was now his to command. His to possess in every sense of the word. In time Weston would enjoy that possession, would beg for Roderick. He had been a fool to think that Joe would grant him that kind of power. He was never going to hand over Weston, after all, Joe believed that Hardy needed his little sidekick. Joe though Hardy couldn't be a hero without boy wonder here following him around. Well too bad for Joe, Roderick didn't care anymore. Fuck Joe.

Roderick had spent years putting everything together, building an empire for Joe from the ground up. For what? So that Joe could stall at the last minute and ruin everything? To put everything on hold right before the finish line, Roderick couldn't stand for the stagnancy. Joe blamed him for the missteps, missteps that wouldn't have happened if they'd been moving forward. This wasn't his fault! This was all Joe's fault. Everything was shit now. His grip tightened around the small paring knife he was holding. He pressed down against the soft skin of Weston's abdomen and flicked his wrist. Such an easy thing to do. The bright red blood was a stark contrast against the canvas of bruised flesh.

Weston could only manage a small whimper. The boys eyes were tired and Roderick knew this was the beginning of the end. Mike Weston was starting to break, to submit. Everything about subtle tick of his breaths and the light fading from those blue eyes let Roderick know, as plain as reading a book. Hope was slowly draining out and soon this living corpse would be his in body and spirit.

Roderick had been working him over since they'd arrived at the abandoned house 26 hours ago. He'd let Weston close his eyes and drift off here and there. The breaks gave Roderick time to monitor the news. He couldn't help but chuckle, the media thought the cult had the young FBI agent. He imagined the FBI standing around once they took down Joe with everyone scratching their heads. Joe would be the first to figure it out, and then Hardy. They'd both know that he won. Checkmate. Not because he had Weston; but because, even if they were able to recapture their lost youth, he'd still belong to Roderick.

He had blood on his hands now and he loved the slick slide of it between his fingers. Roderick had been careful not to draw any blood up to this point. You had to tenderize your meat before you seasoned it. It was important now, for Weston to see his own blood on Roderick's hands. Weston's resolve was incinerated and turning to ash. Roderick turned the knife over in front of Weston's eyes. Weston had learned within the first few hours not to look away. Roderick reveled in the fear and despair now living inside of Weston's eyes. It was rising to the surface, coming ashore with the tide and Roderick couldn't get enough.

"You know what you need to say. You can make all this pain stop." Roderick kept his voice low and solid.

He had given Weston a way out when they'd started their little game. He knew Weston wouldn't use it then. He was filled to the brim with too much pride and soaked in lofty, heroic ideals. Roderick was sure Weston understood now, what could be taken from a man in 26 hours. Roderick offered him salvation now, and he knew Weston would take it. He watched Weston's eyes close tightly and Roderick honestly had to admire how much of that proud boy was still in there.

"Please..." Weston's voice was so small and quiet that it sent chills of excitement coursing through Roderick. Yet, they both knew it wasn't enough. He laid the knife against Weston's stomach again and watched another bright red line blossom next to the first. Weston's body trembled and jerked.

"Please!" Weston's voice came louder, filling the small room with the sweet sound of anguish.

"Please what Mikey?" Roderick wasn't looking for volume, he was looking for surrender.

"Please...help me?"

A grin broke across Roderick's face. He had to congratulate himself on just how damn good he was. He loved to put the young man through hell but he was practically giddy with excitement about the next phase of this.

"Please help me what?" Roderick stilled himself, he had to be patient or he'd ruin it.

Weston took a shaky breath and Roderick watched his eyes fill with confusion and then self loathing.

"Please help me, sir." Weston's voice broke and the beauty of it filled Roderick with a sense of calm purpose. It was as if he could hear Weston's spirit breaking.

"Well gosh Michael, all you had to do was ask." Roderick smiled and moved around the table.

He carefully bandaged the two shallow cuts he'd made in Weston's stomach. He was gentle as he untied the ropes binding Weston's wrists and ankles and loosened the belt around his chest. When Roderick moved to help him sit up Weston screamed. It was throaty, raw and shaking with pain. His trembling hand shot out and he grasped Roderick's arm for support. Through all of the beating and even through the cutting Weston had been stubbornly quiet. So, for him to cry out now was all too gratifying. Roderick could practically hear Weston's teeth grinding against each other in distress.

"I can't! Please, I can't." Weston leaned heavily against Roderick, his arms wrapped loosely around himself. The feel of him, the smell of his sweat, made Roderick's heart race. He had to focus to control his breathing as his excitement level spiked. Weston's shoulders jerked and his body began to shake. His breaths came in short clipped puffs and Roderick quickly realised, much to his enjoyment, the boy was crying. Mike Weston, FBI agent, was breaking down and crying in his arms. If only Joe had let him take care of Weston the right way the first time. They would have easily gotten Claire's location.

Roderick knew now that things happened for a was nothing Joe and his cult could offer him that would be better than this. He would be the one to decide when he was done with Weston, not Joe.

"Don't worry boy, I gotcha." Roderick stepped to the side of Weston and lifted him off the table and into his arms. Weston whimpered and was tense for a moment before he relaxed against Roderick's chest. Roderick carried him through the dilapidated old house to a room he'd made up in the back. A room with no windows and a brand new lock on the door. He laid Weston down on the twin bed against the far wall and smiled at him. Weston avoided his eyes for a second but then met his gaze hesitantly.

"Get some rest kid." Roderick turned and walked toward the door.

"Thank you." Weston's quiet voice carried across the small space easily and Roderick knew. Mike Weston was his.