The Inheritance ~ with Scuttle Buttin'

In the basement that generally comprised her whole universe, all was still. No clock marked the passage of time. When she was tired, she turned the light out and slept but she had little concept of how long her 'days' lasted. When she was hungry she took stock of her meagre supplies and elected to wait a little longer. When she felt faint she ate.

He had never left her in the basement this long before. Sometimes he would tell her when he was going away for a few days. Sometimes it amused him to let her wonder if this time he had simply left her to die. Sometimes he left adequate food and other supplies. Sometimes he didn't. She was now convinced that he had finally abandoned her for good. She had known when he had taken her collar.

He had never told her what he did for a living and she had never dared to ask. Sometimes he was away for months at a time but then she would have the run of the house... in a manner of speaking. She was expected to keep the place immaculate and never to answer the phone or the door intercom. The security system he had could be accessed remotely and she had learned to her cost that he could go online and observe her whenever he chose to, from wherever he was. She was never to sit or sleep on his furniture and spent the bulk of the time in her basement, the one part of the house he couldn't view online. His office was completely off limits and he always locked it behind him.

To conserve energy, she now spent most of her time on her narrow, steel-framed bunk. At first it had been very difficult to deviate from the routine he had set out for her but now she did very little. There was no book, radio, tv or internet and the boredom proved harder to handle at times than her physical privation. She knew she had lost weight but avoided the mirror now.

Her basement comprised of a small, cell-like bedroom and bathroom. The rest of the considerable space held far more interesting things. There was a closet stuffed with lingerie, sexy outfits and a much smaller number of items of clothing that could be worn in public. Another closet held a plethora of sex toys, implements and bondage equipment, including some rather ingenious restraints. Magnetic wrist and ankle cuffs not only attached to one another but allowed the girl to be fixed in place anywhere on the walls, floor or ceiling. There was a cross trainer and another corner held a hospital trolley and everything needed for DIY first aid; from sutures and splints to oxygen and a defibrillator. A locked cabinet held drugs both prescription and illegal, including an experimental aphrodisiac that wasn't even designed for use on females and a lethal poison. There was also an antique iron cage; too small for her to sit or lie down in. A narrow hatch allowed for meals to be passed through, along with a stainless steel bedpan that she could just about kneel over in the cramped space.

She lay still and silent, listening to her breathing and watching her thin chest rise and fall.

How long would it take her to die here?


She had been plucked from the street in her native Russia at just 17 years old. The next few months she had spent on a remote farm, where she was forced to farm the land and learn English. After that she was shipped to the United States and auctioned. Her good command of English coupled with how very young she looked had appealed to the man who bought her.

At first Rick Williams had been kind to her. He was in his 50s and apart from his obvious affluence, did not seem intimidating. He ordered take-out and wine, watched a movie with her and then gave her a nightdress to wear. He held her tenderly and made no attempt to kiss her. She had actually thought that she had landed on her feet, that she hadn't been purchased by a total psycho.

The very next day proved the 18 year old slavegirl completely wrong.


Rick Williams sat across from his consultant. For the first time in many years he was totally speechless. He had prostate cancer, cancer which had spread to his kidneys and bowel and was en route to more vital organs. Six months to a year, if he opted for aggressive chemotherapy.

Well fuck that then.

He spent the next couple of weeks sorting his affairs but the problem remained about what to do with his most treasured possession. Little bitch would never guess but she was actually treasured. If not for her he would have snapped and gone inside for rape and battery years ago.

"Mister Williams, over here!"

Rick barely resisted the urge to jam the latest pap's zoom lense up his asshole and strode to his sports car, averting his face. It was sheer dumb luck that nobody had clocked him visiting an oncologists's office, so he figured he should count his blessings. Being an A List actor had its perks but this was definitely not one of them.

Back at the house he called an exclusive agency and ordered a hooker. Since his prostate shot itself to hell he had been constantly horny. A good hard throat-fuck had done wonders for his mood this morning and he was jonesing now for something gentler than he inflicted on his pet. But there was still fun to be had with her.

Rick fetched her from the basement, propelling her by a fistful of hair up the stairs the through the house to his master bedroom. By Hollywood standards it was a tiny property but what it had in spades was privacy. Rick had never wanted to live in a mansion, he just wanted to be left alone.

He reflected fleetingly that it was a great pity nobody would ever know just how talented an actor he truly was.

His stride out-stripped hers, leaving her stumbling in his wake. Rick's voice was low with menace and contempt.

"... fuck do you even call that this morning? It's past time I had a real woman, not some scrawny little bitch. You could get the same nice treatment if you weren't so fucking useless." He threw her against the closet door, bringing his free hand up to grab her throat and squeeze. "Make a sound in there and I will fucking end you."

Inside the wooden closet he put her on her knees and fixed her wrist cuffs to a metal plate on the wall. The height of the plate was high enough that she couldn't rest her asscheeks on her heels, so her position got uncomfortable very quickly. A small flatscreen blinked on and displayed Rick's king sized bed.

The hooker arrived and after a couple of drinks they headed to the bedroom. She was a typical choice for Rick; tall, blonde, busty and with a hollywood tan. Rick assumed the role of ardent lover and all-round-nice-guy, kissing and pleasuring the woman in ways that he knew would torture the bound bitch watching and listening to his every move.

By the time he blew his load across the hooker's impossibly perfect tits, Rick had decided what to do.

He was a little surprised at himself that he was considering the worthless little cunt's welfare... that he didn't actually want to kill her as he had fantasised about doing so many times. Once or twice he had even made her believe he was done with her, choking her till her lights went out while just barely restraining himself from crushing her tiny windpipe.

He had never married and had no children. He could leave his shit to whoever he goddamn pleased and there was one guy who stood an outside chance of not handing his fucktoy to the police... Rick's nephew. The man had never married either and was known for his womanising. Rick had also detected in him the same brand of thinly veiled chauvinism that he possessed himself. It was a long shot but it was pretty much all the bitch had. One did not simply return merchandise like that.

Rick put her back in her basement and checked it was well stocked with food and toiletries. He back-handed her with savage force, just for the visceral pleasure of watching her reel backwards as her face contorted with pain. Rick bent down, removed her collar without a word of explanation and simply turned on his heel. He visited his lawyer and got his will changed then and there. Rick tidied a little, cancelled his cleaner and wrote his nephew a letter.

This key card gives you access to the basement studio. The six digit passcode is 102890. Downstairs you will find my most precious possession, my pet. It's fully trained and I've had it neutered. You were the only person I felt that I could possibly entrust with this. If however you feel that you cannot take on such a commitment, I urge you either to very carefully re-home it or have the balls and compassion to put it down. There is no way that it could ever simply be released, it is just not equipped for that. I hope it brings you as much joy as it brought me.

Click to expand...

Rick signed the letter and placed it in his safe. The safe code was with his lawyer and would be handed over along with the rest of his estate.

After a large single malt, Rick took one last look at the terminal cancer diagnosis outlined on the papers in front of him and removed his pistol from a locked desk drawer. He attached a silencer and loaded ammunition. It occurred to him then that making his home a potential crime scene was a bad idea. Rick drove to the coast while he still had the nerve and watched the sun set as he sunk the last of the whiskey. He was completely dry eyed as he inserted the gun barrel into his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

Wealth was eternally a subjective thing. What was barely a percentage of one's wealth could seem like more than another could spend in two lifetimes. For some, the pursuit of more was never ending. For others, the ability to live comfortably and pursue their interests was all they sought.

Unlike his uncle, a man that did not know the meaning of the word "enough," Dylan McCoy had little need of such wealth. That was not to say that he did not do well for himself, a combination of the money left to him upon the death of his parents and what he'd earned while a professor of 19th Century British History at Boston College meant that he wanted for little. It also allowed him to spend the last year as an unpaid visiting professor in Oxford, teaching a couple classes and otherwise taking advantage of their exceptional library.

At 6'5", McCoy was quite often the tallest man in the room, and a couple months away from his 40th birthday meant he was just as often the youngest, given the rooms he frequented. His father, too, had been a professor, and so his family had spent many years in England with him as he taught biology, first at King's College London, and then for a few years at Oxford. It was this time that had given McCoy his love of British history, as well as the subtle British accent threaded through his speech, despite the fact that he'd been born in Virginia while his father finished school at William & Mary.

His time at the school was officially finished, but he'd taken the time between the end of term and the end of the lease on his small apartment to soak up the town as much as he could. It was this that led him to be sitting in a small cafe with a half empty cup of coffee steaming away in front of him and a thick book open in his hands when his phone began to chirp in his pocket. Frowning at the interruption, he glanced at the page number and closed the book, setting it next to the cup as he reached within his coat to withdraw the phone. A glance at the number and his frown deepened. Not one he recognized, or even had a clue as to where it originated from. There was a moment of debate, the idea of letting it go to voice mail and dealing with whatever it was later had some appeal to it, but the phone seemed ignorant of his pondering and went right on insisting on his attention. With some resignation, he tapped the button that would connect the call.

"Hello?"

Five minutes later, McCoy was out of the cafe and walking briskly down the sidewalk, his coffee left and book tucked under his arm, and his frown had somehow deepened further. His uncle, a man named Rick that he'd not seen in close to two decades, had been found in his car, dead by an apparently self-inflicted gunshot. A short time before it seemed he was diagnosed with an untreatable and fatal cancer, which they believed is what caused him to decide to take his own life.

"Why are you telling me this?" was McCoy's first response. It was not as if he was uncaring, but his last contact with his uncle had come many years before, when Dylan was a significantly different, and more troubled, person. He had broken up with a long-time girlfriend and was angry and bitter. Rick had always told him that he had an open invitation to stay in his impossibly large house, and alone and hurt in New York between semesters of graduate school at Columbia didn't sound like his idea of fun. A night of drinking turned into a late night of drunken venting, and he had said some things he later regretted. Many things, in fact. He left two days later, giving the excuse that he had to get ready for the next semester, though the simple truth was he was tired of trying to avoid his uncle, a man he had for years feared he gave the wrong impression to. They weren't close before, however, and had not seen each other since, relying instead on the occasional update from other family to keep abreast of the life of the other, and McCoy was a little embarrassed to realize that he'd not really thought about the man in a few years.

The embarrassment was barely a memory when he was informed of the reason behind the call, and it was this information that sent him out of the cafe.

He left the entirety of his estate to you.

"He what?" had come the quick reply, and much too loudly for what was an otherwise quiet little room. Heads turned, newspapers were lowered, and McCoy beat a hasty retreat.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?"

I assure you, sir, this is no joke. We have his will here, and I can assure you it is legitimate and legal. We have some paperwork for you, of course, but otherwise his estate is yours.

After more assurances were made that this was, in fact, happening, arrangements were made and McCoy began packing in earnest. He was a bit reluctant to leave Oxford early, but there were clearly time-sensitive affairs that had to be tended to. And what kind of person, upon hearing of the death of their uncle, didn't climb aboard the next available flight?






Two days later, McCoy met with Rick's lawyer to settle the estate. Papers were signed, keys were handed over, and along them a small piece of paper with a few numbers written on it.

"That is the code to his safe. I don't know what is in there, but he said it was imperative that you receive this so you have access," the lawyer told him. Dark eyes scanned the paper, memorized the number, and then the paper was slipped into the folder with the rest of the paperwork he was leaving with. The two men shook hands, with the lawyer telling him to call if he had any questions, and McCoy left his office.

The exterior of the house looked much as he remembered it, though he discovered that the interior had been updated and changed considerably since he'd last seen it, presumably to keep it looking modern. An alarm beeped urgently just inside the doorway, and with wide eyes Dylan flipped through the paperwork until he located the alarm code and punched in it. A satisfied beep was followed by silence, and he hoped that meant the police were not being summoned. The last thing he wanted right now was to deal with more than he already was.

It had been a long day, between the flight, the trip from the airport to the lawyer's, and then from there to his uncle's house - technically, his house now - McCoy had been awake for nearly 15 hours. As he surveyed what of the house he could see from the entrance, he began to feel every minute of it. His suitcase and papers were left at the bottom of the stairs, and he made his way into the kitchen in hopes of finding something quick to eat.

Fruit sat in a bowl, bad and swarmed by small flies. The milk in the fridge was a week past the date on the carton and, he suspected, no longer entirely liquid. The eggs a shelf down were just a day past their sell by date, and combined with a cup of less than stellar tea, he had a quick meal that settled the rumbling in his stomach enough that he'd be able to sleep. Pan and mug were set in the sink, dishes he had no energy to take care of now, and he collected his suit case and papers from the bottom of the stairs and made his way up.

It didn't feel right taking the master bedroom - if he was honest with himself, it felt a bit creepy just being here knowing his uncle was dead, but it was apparently what the man wanted - and so he made his way to one of the guest bedrooms. The papers were dropped onto the dresser, and he stripped out of his clothes, leaving them in a pile on a chair in the corner. The guest bathroom, one of a few it turned out, was well-stocked with soap and towels, and a hot shower steamed up the room and drained the rest of the energy from his body. Exhausted, he dried off, pulled back the covers, and slipped between the cool sheets naked. He was asleep within minutes.




Ten hours later, McCoy blinked at the sunlight filtering into the room, confused for a moment about where he was. Eyes opening to the ceiling above, it all came rushing back rather quickly and left him, instead, wondering what time it was. The rumble of his stomach told him it had been some time since he ate his small dinner, and he needed something more substantial. Stepping out of bed, he eyed the closed suitcase warily, and instead opted to step into the boxers he'd wore yesterday and pulled yesterday's undershirt over his head as well. Barefoot, he made his way down to the kitchen, and was once more confronted with the old and expired.

A little more inspection netted him some frozen sausage, and combined with more eggs and tea his hunger was again put down. Dishes were put in the sleek stainless steel dishwasher, which he started while he filled the trash can with the food that had gone bad. Holding the bag at arm's length, he made his way outside to search for the trashcans, finding them after a bit of exploration.

The sleep and food, combined with the cleaning, energized him a bit and he found himself ready to tackle more of the house and see just what he was dealing with. Alone in the house, he felt no need or desire to put on more clothes, and so he began reacquainting himself with the place in just the little he'd put on initially. Cleaners would have to be called, and eventually he'd have to make a trip to the market, both necessitating clothing, but both could wait until later.

The discovery of the office, and the safe behind the desk, reminded him of the code he'd been given for it, and he returned to his room to fish the paper out of the folder. Back down the plushly carpeted hallway and the numbers were punched into the safe, which clicked free and allowed him to open the heavy door. Blinking in surprise, Dylan withdrew a small collar and the folded piece of paper under it.

The collar was turned over in his hands, and then the paper was unfolded. His eyes scanned the note quickly, ending with the signature, and then again more slowly.

A pet?

His eyes returned to the collar, then once more back to the first line of the letter.

This key card gives you access to the basement studio. The six digit passcode is 102890. Downstairs you will find my most precious possession, my pet.

A realization came to him slowly, a mixture of shock and horror, his eyes widening at the collar.

"He locked a fucking dog in the basement?"

The question was spoken aloud, almost as if he needed to express the flash of anger he felt at this obscene negligence or risk bursting, and then he was off, bare feet quick on the carpet.

He was out of breath when he reached the basement, more so when he found the studio door, and his hands were shaking as he punched in the code. A red light blinked at him stupidly the first time, the code entered wrongly somewhere, and he began again.

"Goddammit," he muttered under his breath as he slowly hit one number at a time, and then more loudly, "Hang on, little guy, I'm coming!"

And hopefully I don't find a dead dog in there...

A green light this time, and a happy beep, and the electronic lock opened for him. Quickly he pulled the door open, his heart dropping when he wasn't met instantly by an excited canine.

"Son of a-"

His words cut off when his eyes found her, and for a moment he simply stared at her, uncomprehending.

A girl?

But...?

Where's the dog?

And how did she...?

And who is she...?

Chest heaving, eyes wide, he let the only words he could form come tumbling from his lips.

"What... the fuck?"

Her blue-grey eyes widened as her head snapped towards the door. It hissed open with a muted tone that nevertheless screamed inordinate expense. She had learned to dread that sound very quickly but when she was left down here like this desperation made her heart leap with hope even as the rest of her body tensed in abject terror.

It so happened that she was awake and had been for some time. She had showered and drunk over a litre of water in order to quell the hunger ravaging her concave stomach. She never wore anything unless she was told to and since she had no desire to be greeted with a fat lip, she was showered and groomed. The steel floor was cold under her feet and she happened to be standing in the main room when the door suddenly hissed open. There was no warning, since the keypad on her side didn't flash or beep before he gained entry.

Her knees immediately buckled. She didn't know why he had left her like this. It could have been an accident but she was inclined to think that he was tiring of her or angry with her about something. A deep primal survival instinct did not want him to find her standing. Her gaze dropped immediately to the floor and her long dark hair curtained her face, obscuring her vision. Suddenly and with renewed force she felt the absence of the leather collar around her neck. As much as she had always despised the thing, which had apparently been acquired at a regular pet store, to denote her worth, it had been the single greatest constant of her last few years. She removed it to shower and for no other reason. It had moulded to her slender throat and softened with time. She recalled once more her total shock at having it snatched from her so viciously.

He didn't want her, he had made that clear... so what the hell was he going to do to her now?

Cold air swept into her temperate climate as he stepped down the basement steps... barefoot, she could hear that he wore no shoes. Her own thin chest fell still. She could hear that his breathing was laboured, which meant he was either drunk or livid. She shivered violently, more at his apparent agitation than the sudden cold on her skeletal frame.

"What... the fuck?"

She gasped audibly, a rare lapse. That wasn't his voice... the timbre and accent were different. He had made it crystal clear that if anyone else were to discover her, she was not to utter a single syllable. The basement and its contents really spoke for itself but regardless of that, if she were to incriminate him in any way, he would make it his life's mission to get hold of her and slowly rip her limb from limb. His threats reverberated around her skull in the comparative silence of the basement. It finally occurred to her that the intruder had not said anything else, nor had he approached her.

This could be some trick of his... some test. He was capable of anything.

She stayed exactly as she was. Years of spending a significant proportion of her time blind or denied permission to lift her gaze meant that she knew what he was doing. His shirt material swished and his hand went through his hair. She heard him grip the bannister and then descend another couple of steps before halting again. He was profoundly shocked... his breathing and tone didn't seem to smack of rage or drunkenness. She became more certain that she had been accidentally discovered by someone but still she could not make herself look up... because she would suffer for it if she was wrong.

For so long she had dreamed of being discovered by someone and rescued. It had consumed her early time here, a powerful fantasy that she carried like a talisman throughout his sadistic subjugation of her. That hope had long been extinguished however. He was too rich, too careful and too concerned about maintaining his own lavish lifestyle. The first time he had gone away and left her the run of the house, she had sat and stared at his telephone for a solid few hours, agonising over whether to risk it. She knew she was in America and everyone who had ever watched a TV knew their emergency number was 911. She didn't know where she was but they would. It was all so simple. So near and yet so far.

It transpired that in order to dial out she needed to input a 10 digit code and there was no exception for emergency calls. When he eventually got back he had greeted her affectionately but less than an hour later he had turned on her, yanking the leather belt from his jeans and whipping her ass until it bled. She learned swiftly that he wanted to tempt her into breaking his rules. He wanted to laugh in her face, smack her around the basement and then pound her into oblivion while he pulverised whatever remained of her self-worth into dust.

So the fact of the matter was that even though she was almost certain that the intruder was not her nemesis, she simply didn't believe herself anywhere near fortunate enough for it to be anyone else, let alone some kind of knight in shining armour. This was another of his traps, his most daring yet since it involved another person but she was not going to get snared this time.

His mind was struggling to catch up, to comprehend what he was seeing. He had been horrified when running down here, and now that he was here and in the room, confusion reigned. Nothing made sense. Why was she locked in this room, apparently alone and in the dim lighting? Why was she on her knees? Why wouldn't she look at him? Why was she naked?

Seconds, perhaps even full minutes ticked by in silence, standing near her and with her continued refusal to move, to look up... were she not facing him, he'd think she wasn't even acknowledging his presence in the room.

And why the hell was she naked?

McCoy at last pulled his eyes from her to look around the small space he'd found her in, and while it cleared up a little - clearly, this was where she either lived or spent much of her time - the why of it all only deepened. His eyes settled back on her, and at last something fell into place. Not a certainty, no, but a possible theory for some of what he suddenly found himself in the middle of.

Most precious possession.

My pet.

The collar.

The naked girl.

...it couldn't be.

Still she didn't look up, and McCoy found himself needing to escape the room. Confirm his theory somehow. Call the lawyer maybe. Or the police, if it was true. Or... immigration, maybe? She may not even be from here.

With a shake of the head, a mostly futile attempt to clear it, he turned and climbed the small stairs out of the room. In the doorway he paused, half-turning to look back at the girl who still would not look at him, and another shake of his head followed.

"I'll... just stay here. I'll be back in a minute."

He pushed the door closed behind him, more out of a force of habit than anything, and then stood on the other side of it, debating what to do. He was caught up in it now, whatever it was, and if his suspicions were correct it could serve to not only ruin his uncle's reputation - which he cared little about - but potentially ruin his career as well - which he cared significantly more about. Before he made any decisions, he had to confirm his theory. But how?

Outside of the room it was significantly easier to think, and the answer came to him rather quickly now. Financial records. If this was what he thought, he'd no doubt have paid cash, but the subtraction in his account should still be there. These days people used debit and credit for almost everything, but if he could find a significant cash expenditure it would go a long way towards confirming his suspicions.

Bare feet carried him back to the office, although not quite at the same pace as he'd left it, and after setting the collar on the desk he began sorting through files and drawers, searching out financial records. An hour later, sitting on the floor amid a sea of scattered papers, he believed he found the evidence he was looking for. Two different trips to Russia and then, less than a week after the final one, a significant cash withdraw.

His head lifted, and his eyes found the collar sitting where he'd left it on the desk. It wasn't absolute proof, of course, but he suspected that might never happen unless she flat-out told him. But the math added up. Short trips to Russia, significant money withdrawn, a collar and note about a "toy," his "most precious possession," and a code that opened a door where a kneeling, naked girl resided behind it. It was undeniable.

His uncle had left him a sex slave. And slave appeared to be in a very literal sense.

On his feet again, he snatched the collar up off the desk and left the room, and it's mess of papers, behind to make another trip to the basement. The code was punched in, and he pulled the door open once more. He stood in the doorway this time, all but filling it up with his size, and the hand holding the collar extended into the room. His tone, when he spoke, held none of the confusion of before. He wanted answers now.

"Is this yours? And if so, what are you?"

When he left she simply knelt there, stunned. It couldn't be him, the voice was too different and he had been too shocked by her presence. So who was he? Well Rick would never have voluntarily given out the access code to someone who didn't know what she was. If he was playing some role to trick her, he was doing a very good job. Perhaps he was a cop? Maybe Rick was more involved in the Russian underworld than she thought? He was certainly arrogant enough to believe he would never get caught.

Maybe he had taken her collar because he knew someone was onto him and didn't want her found wearing it? No... surely the basement was incriminating enough without a strap of leather around her neck.

She rose decisively and almost instantly felt faint. She was down to her last couple of protein bars and made herself eat one, washing it down with water.

Should she dress? The concept was all but alien to her. He had said he would only be a minute... hadn't he? She had only heard Rick's voice for so long that she was at a disadvantage now with her English. Rick knew to talk to her slowly like the dumb little cunt she was.

Rick wasn't here. Just where the fuck was he?

Why the hell would she want him here!

Dumb cunt.

Whoever the man was, he was here without Rick's authorization, that much was clear. She reasoned that it would do no harm to put some clothes on. If Rick returned he could hardly get shitty with her for concealing his property from prying eyes. Well... he could but she was forced to play the odds here.

She pulled on a white cotton thong, some denim shorts and a white vest top. She had lost so much weight that she couldn't have worn a bra even if she had wanted to. Her nipples pressed against the cloth but that really couldn't be helped.

She paced the floor but soon tired. Malnutrition put her back on the steel framed bunk to await the intruder's return.

When the door opened once again she rose and forced herself to look up. The tall man who filled the doorway was only half dressed, which dashed any hopes she might have had of him being a cop. There was something of Rick in his narrowed eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw. She gazed up at him helplessly, utterly ambivalent as he brandished the collar at her.

"Is this yours? And if so, what are you?"

What are you? Not 'who are you' but 'what are you?'

He was very tall and the way he filled the door frame at the top of the basement steps made him look like a giant to her. Certainly he was taller than Rick.

If he wasn't a cop... if she wasn't imagining the resemblance to Rick... she couldn't really incriminate him. It wouldn't be like talking to the authorities. Rick wouldn't kill her for speaking and even if he did, who the hell cared?

Her voice when she spoke was quiet and hoarse from lack of use. Now that she had looked at this man she found that she could not look away. Her Russian accent was strong.

"That is Rick's." She informed him, nodding at the collar in his hand. "Everything here belongs to Rick."

There. She had stated nothing that was not obvious and if this man had no business trespassing he might think twice at the reminder of who she belonged to. While he digested this information she managed to phrase the first unsolicited question she had asked in a very long time.

"Where is he? Who are you?"

Her tone and stance made it clear that she wasn't remotely concerned with Rick's wellbeing. She couldn't manage total indifference and definitely looked not a little furtive but at least she wasn't on her knees begging for rescue. Rick might still walk in at any moment and she remained a lot more terrified of him than of this shocked intruder.