Locked Away

Celine POV

24 Years Old

The walls of my cell have become home and, oddly, a comfort. Compared to where I have lived, this is the worst; I had a bedroom everywhere else. They may have been small, but they were better than nothing.

This cell is cold and dirty. It's just stone. The windows don't exist. The light comes through the hole in the brickwork, which has metal bars over it. The people here are the worst; I've gotten used to this life now.

I say I've gotten used to this life, but I don't think I ever will. Before coming here, I thought Wes, Dolton and Alex were monsters, but I realised throughout everything that they cared even if they didn't give me a choice.

Even with Richard and the brothers, where I was used as an enslaved person, it was different to here. I had some sort of respect there; here, I am treated worse than an animal. People will hurt me purely because they think it's fun.

I’ve not got much here. I sleep on straw and use it as a blanket; it’s more than the prisoners get, at least. That is yet another difference. I had a bed, blankets, clothes, drawers, and even small pieces of jewellery, makeup, and such everywhere else I had lived, but not here.

Here, I have nothing—no toiletries, no sanitary items. Then again, I'm only allowed to bathe once a week, and that is a struggle. I've always had access to showers or a bath. Here, I'm only allowed to bathe in the lake. It's wrong, and I hate that the most out of everything.

I hate that they view me as less than human, less than an animal, either. I'm stripped of everything that makes me human as if they are trying to turn me into an animal. Sometimes, I do feel like one.

It’s five o’clock. The sun hasn't even risen yet, but I begin getting ready. I walk to the pack house and into the kitchen. I pull out everything for today’s breakfast and begin cooking for those who usually eat here.

Most of the pack who are in relationships or married don’t eat here. Those who are single, however, do. If their partners are travelling, again, they will eat here. After I was sold, I was quickly put to work here.

I cook, clean, and do everything around the pack house and in the offices. I do hear them, though, saying they are using me and can’t afford to lose me. Anyone can replace me as the cook, cleaner, and sex slave.

So it leaves me wondering what else they gain from me that can’t be so easily replaced. What did they get from me that was worth the millions they paid at the auction? There's nothing; I listen and watch all the time. If I know they are speaking in the offices while I am cleaning, I stand outside and try to hear.

No one has mentioned what they use me for; that is so worth the money. I know that many of the servants here were taken against their will. They weren't bought, so why did they pay for me?

Pushing the thoughts from my mind, I go back to cooking breakfast. I aim to make enough for two hundred, although it’s a guarantee I will be punished later. I’m not meant to waste food, so if any is left, I’m penalised for cooking too much.

If I don't cook enough, though, the abuse I get from the Betas and others is sometimes worse. So, I always aim to make more than needed, as the last time Beta Jonas didn't eat, I regretted it far more than when I cooked too much.

Sometimes, I feel like they purposely eat less, so food is wasted so that I get punished. I also need to make enough stew for the orphans and prisoners. Although it’s not stew, it’s like water because I’m not allowed to add a lot of things to it. As the stew is done, I place it into the plastic bottles, which is all we have to eat out of.

It's all that is needed, and it's not like we get any real food. Going through the bread, I find the old loaves and cut them up, placing them in separate bags. Today, there’s no mould, which is different. We always end up with mould and stale bread. I've tried before to sneak the fresh bread. I'm not sure how they knew, but the punishment afterwards was brutal, so I don't even try anymore.

Once it’s done, I grab the food for the pack. As I place the large platters on the table, the pack’s members come pushing through the kitchen and sitting at the large tables. Many push past me as if I am not real.

“Move it, mutt!” Beta Noah strikes me hard, so I tumble back and fall to the floor. My head smacks against the unit with an audible crack, and I groan. Everyone laughs and points at me. All I want to do is get up and fight back, but fighting back will lead to my death. Even I know that.

“Where she belongs,” Gamma Selene laughs. This is not where I belong, not at all. Standing up, I brush myself off and begin cleaning the rooms within the pack house. Each one took me a long time. I hate cleaning Beta Noah’s. He purposely leaves it in the worst possible state as he can. It’s as if he gets enjoyment from knowing I have to clean his mess, especially if he’s shared his room with a woman that night.

Like now, the used condoms litter the floor, the entire room reeks of sex, and I feel genuinely sorry for whichever woman he spent the night with. Then, I feel grateful it wasn't me for a change, it's not often he doesn't come to me when he has urges he needs to fulfil. I spent over an hour cleaning his room, and it was nearly ten p.m. by the time I finished. Today seemed to take far longer than the other days.

My mind goes to the past, to Dolton. He never came to find me or rescue me. I still wonder about him, but I always knew deep down that his love for his brothers would stop him from coming for me. They were too close; he likely quickly moved on once I left and found another mate.