Untamable [BXB]

02: panthers

   Silas awoke the next morning with a start.

   The second his eyes flew open he was met with bright morning light— then hands pinning him down, and several men surrounding him. Two stood on either side of the bed, holding his arms down, and another two attempted to wrangle his kicking legs. Silas, still adjusting to the sudden awakening, wrenched and writhed in the grasp, eyes wide as his teeth clenched with the sound of a near-feral snarl that escaped his lungs.

   He kicked one man square in the stomach and managed to knock him backwards, but another person came through the mass and restrained him swiftly.

   They wisely lean away from his snapping teeth, but then one man breaks through the surrounding crowd and thrusts something over his face— something Silas knew all too well— a muzzle.

   He thrashed his head, trying to shake off the offending item. But within seconds he feels the leather straps tighten around his head, and he hears the click of mechanisms fastening it in place. His heart beats out his chest at the rude awakening, fear alight under his skin the second he'd opened his eyes. He pushes with all his might against the unyielding grasp of hands on his body, but he can't budge an inch. Silas's wide eyes flit around the multitude of faces in a panic, eyes still adjusting to the morning light.

   'Oh,'  He thinks vaguely, the events of yesterday coming back to mind, as he continues to struggle. 'That's right. It's my birthday today.'

   Then he's shoved over, pinned down flat on his stomach. The action has him wide awake, any glimpse of sleep still lingering completely vanishes, as a cold flood of fear shoots through his veins in an instant.

   The two men at either side of him grasp both of Silas's wrists to wrench them awkwardly behind his back— forcing a wince to slip past his clenched teeth. The position is all too familiar. His feet dig frantically into the bed, his heart rate picks up, and his breath suddenly comes out as short, quiet pants. He feels rope winding around his hands— they're bound, he's unable to bite, he can't do a thing and— and—

—And Silas wants to cry.

   He can't believe it himself. He doesn't know what possesses him to suddenly feel this sinking pit form within his chest, but he wants to cry, and barely manages to swallow down a whimper. There's this feeling of jittery panic beneath his skin, settling and buzzing in his bones, and he doesn't understand it. He just knows his body is betraying him again and he hates it.

   It's the feeling of the muzzle, tightening into the skin around his mouth. It's the texture of scratchy, too-tight rope constricting his wrists. It's the position as he's shoved front down into the bed. It's the humiliation, and feeling of powerlessness; knowing he's barely strong enough to stand after last nights beating, has no way to defend himself, and is being chastened like a bad dog.

   He can feel the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezes them shut so tight that he can feel them strain in response. He won't cry. He can't cry.

    The crowd of people disperse, and one man hauls him up onto his feet by his bound hands. Silas forces himself to pay attention to anything other than the situation at hand. He knows what's going to happen— he's going to face an alpha on the prowl for a mate, about to face a shifting environment and terrifying new things, but with his pounding heart, he tries to focus on anything else.

    Cold floor beneath your feet. Tired, aching legs. The scent of fresh air beyond the window.

    He never knew he could feel so grateful for texture, flooding his head with sensory details. He opens his eyes as he is led out of the room, legs trembling under him in a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. "Don't struggle," The man who has him by the wrists growls. "You'll only make it worse for yourself." Silas doesn't dignify him with a response.