Chapter 8 Winston
WINSTON
The indignity. My paws thump against the cursed treadmill, the belt humming beneath me like a torture device. Holly coos as she leaves, telling me I’m a “good boy” while that intruder gets twenty minutes alone with her. Twenty minutes too long.
I glance at the flashing red timer. Nineteen minutes left. My tail lashes with fury.
He thinks he’s clever with his pink flowers and sweet talk, but I see through him. A brainless man-child on blades, chasing pucks for a living. Hardly worthy of my Holly’s affection.
She deserves adoration, a palace of pillows, shrimp for breakfast—not some sweaty brute who smells of ice rinks and testosterone.
The treadmill whirs faster. I leap off, landing gracefully on the mat beside it. They think they can lock me away? Ha. Winston can never be truly contained. The moment that door cracks open, I’ll be back where I belong—between her and him. Always.
For now, I sharpen my claws on the mat and plot. Because no matter what schemes he cooks up, I’ll be ready.