Wynter stood, her underwear back in place, and her cum-stained fingers clutching her husband's waiting hand. They strolled to the steps together. Heavy boots and clacking heels.
They both stopped for a moment, and my eyes shifted in their direction, wondering why they hadn't left already.
Ville picked up the bowl of dog food, but I didn't watch as he carried the bowl over to my cage, placing it to the side of this morning's excretions. My eyes stayed on Wynter—wide with horror—as she picked up another item from the stair. . . a camera, that had been filming my torture.
There was no doubt in my mind that that recording would be sold to the highest bidder on the dark web.
Wynter didn't turn back to me, but she made sure I saw the camera. She wanted something to torment me all night, without having to put the effort in herself.
Ville gripped the neck of his t-shirt, ripping it down the middle and off my body.
I was glad to be free of it.
Glad to be free of him as heavy boots and heels sounded again, the couplemoving as a pair to leave the room.
I looked over to the bowl of dog food left behind. The strong odor, used to mask the chemicals within from loving pet owners, called me over.
I hadn't eaten in so long, and even dog food would taste better than the last thing put in my mouth.
I clutched at the small chunks, knowing I'd be offered nothing else, and placed them on my tongue. I had run out of tears to cry, or this exact moment, would have had me drowning in my misery.
I chewed with an open mouth, trying to do my tastebuds a small honor. And I did this until the bowl was empty and my stomach was full.
Ville wobbled down the steps once more about an hour later. His unsteady footwork brought on by more of the whisky and vodka he'd consumed over the last sixty-whatever minutes, had him spilling the contents of the bowl he was carrying.
Water.
My water.
He probably knew I was thirsty from my dry lips scraping up and down on his cock. He probably didn’t care about spilling it, either. He’d be happy to see me lick the stairs.
The bowl clanked as he placed it at the bottom of the stairs.
I pretended to sleep, my eyes open only the smallest crack.
He watched me for a while, and like he knew my slumber was a deception, he said, “Oh, I tipped a bit. Better fill it back up.”
The zipper on his jeans chewed through the metal, opening enough for them to loosen on his hips.
My lips twitched, my eyes forcing themselves shut as he urinated an unhealthy color of piss into my water bowl.
“Enjoy, whore.” He snorted, zipping himself back up and turning for the stairs.
He got to the top, pushing the door to freedom behind him, but in his soused state, he didn't realize he hadn't closed it tight. And, for the first time, the drunken idiot forgot to lock it, so he didn’t even notice.
I took a deep breath, my escape feeling closer than ever.
I knew my fuzzy sight would make it difficult to maneuver around the dark house without making much noise. I knew my broken knee would make it even harder.
I had to bide my time. Long enough for the alcohol inside him to take him down.
And that was what I planned to do.
But I underestimated how tired my body was, and as I lay there, doing nothing, my mind, for once, clear of made-up realities, another kind of dream called me. The kind I could only get through sleep.
Chapter 25
Jolie—present day
