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“You know I’m going to kill your boss,” I tell him conversationally between mouthfuls. “I told her already.”

The words feel empty now. Weightless. Earlier they were hot rocks in my throat. Now they drift out on a cloud.

He doesn’t answer. He scrapes the last bit of beige off the plate and pushes it into my mouth. I swallow that too.

When the food is gone, he picks up the small bottle and unscrews the cap.

The scent hits immediately. Vodka, cheap and strong. He holds the bottle to my lips.

I laugh and take a long pull. It burns. God, it burns. Straight down my throat and into my chest. My eyes water. I cough, then push my mouth forward for more.

He obliges, and doesn’t stop. He tips more, and more. I swallow greedily. My head starts to float. Edges soften. The concrete around me loses its brutality, turns almost friendly.

“You’re not very talkative, are you?” I mumble.

This cell doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not right now. Not with tablets dissolving through my bloodstream and vodka tracing fire along every vein.

“I always knew I’d end up somewhere like this,” I tell the assistant. My words slur, but they still line up. Just.

“I thought it would be a back room somewhere. A van. A ditch. Not… this. Not… experiments.”

I start giggling, then can’t stop. My shoulders shake against the wall, cuffs scraping skin. The assistant shifts his weight, preparing for something, rubbing his crotch area.

He lowers the bottle when it’s half-empty, screws the cap back on. My mouth reaches for it, tongue chasing the taste.

“Please…” I beg. I like Vodka. I pull my tongue out, hoping he’ll dribble more on it.

But he sets the bottle back on the tray, then collects the empty plate and plastic cups.

With my tongue out, a soft, needy ache starts to stretch from my throat to somewhere between my thighs.

The assistant glances toward the door and I close my eyes. I’m restless, jittery. I need someone. Two someones.

Big hands on my throat. Mouth against my ear. That low voice telling me to open wider, to take more. The weight of a body pinning mine while my mind finally goes quiet.

Them. The Boars.

The thought hits me hard. Hard enough to cut through the vodka haze for a second.

I swallow, my mouth tastes bitter again. Not from the pills this time. But I still take my flat tongue out.

My head spins, then settles. The cell folds around me again, close and steady. Concrete no longer feels like a cage. It feels like a padded room in my head where everything narrows to sensation and need.

I picture Rio’s eyes when he looks at me like he’s already holding me down. I picture Brox’s voice when he orders me to kneel. I picture both of them on either side of me, steady and merciless, giving my nervous system something clear to answer.

Heat curls low in my belly.

The assistant clears his throat. It’s going to be him again, I know.

He fucks me every time I’m ready because this drug it’s gnawing at my insides.

I’m not sure how long this has been going on, an hour, a month or even a year. All I know is that this fatty can no longer satisfy me. He’s done the lot, from aggressively griping my hips as he fucked my ass, to pinching my nipples and fucking my face and everything in between.

There have been moments in which I would wake up and find myself on the cold bench, his body over mine, his girth filling me completely. His eyes locked onto mine as beads of sweat drip from his forehead onto my sweaty face.

But he seems drained and spent. And him rubbing himself doesn’t do the trick anymore.

Now I lie on the metal shelf with cuffs cutting into my skin, stomach full of mystery paste and pills and vodka, brain buzzing, ants dancing. And I need someone to fuck me.