The second lounge chair was turned away from him toward the television, so he hadn’t noticed the dark figure still sitting there. The vampire was not looking at Stiles; his eyes were on the television, glued there with a sort of bemused awe. And as he watched, he rolled his head from side to side, turning it slowly, aligning the reformed vertebrae and audibly grinding the cartilage until the fit was secure. His movements were still jerky, made worse by the damage Stiles had inflicted, so it appeared all the more unnatural when that once-broken neck craned around to glare at him. The face was shadowed, backlit by the television, but Stiles could feel those empty black eyes on him, never blinking, boring into him. It was all he could do to fight back a shiver and continue to feign unconsciousness. Danner watched a little longer, then cocked a thumb at the TV. “This is really something,” he said in a distinctly Hoosier drawl, though there was nothing at all folksy in his tone. “How does it work?”

Stiles stayed silent.

With a sigh of exasperation the vampire stood and stretched his young, lanky frame. Then he stepped over to the bed and jabbed a vicious finger into Stiles’s crotch. The prostrate man clenched his teeth to conceal a whimper and tried curling into a ball, but the ropes refused him. Danner just laughed. “I thought that would get your attention. Now, how does the TV box work?”

The soldier strained against his bonds. “Go fuck yourself,” he hissed.