Dumping The Ice King His Mini-Tyrant novel Chapter 307

Somewhere in a locked room:

The flickering light from the television cast strange shadows across Harrison’s face. Never in his wildest nightmares had he imagined he’d be trapped like this—humiliated, wrists bound, forced to stare at the evening news as the hours crawled by.

A clock ticked on the corner of the screen. Harrison knew it had been over twenty-four hours. He’d spent an entire day and night imprisoned here.

After so long without food or water, he barely felt any physical urges anymore. Still, the sweat from earlier clung to his skin, and his slacks—soiled in his own desperation—reeked. The stench made his skin crawl.

He couldn’t recall a single time in his life when he’d worn the same suit two days in a row. Even after grueling all-nighters at the firm, he always managed to steal ten minutes for a shower and a change of crisp clothes.

He remembered the year Natalie Vaughn died—those nights he drank himself into oblivion, collapsing onto the couch. Selene would quietly slip in, loosen his tie, pull off his shoes and socks, and gently wipe his face with a warm towel. She’d somehow haul him into bed, and every morning he’d wake up in clean pajamas, feeling fresh, not a trace of the previous night’s chaos left on his skin. Selene would have cleaned him from head to toe.

Harrison closed his eyes, a prisoner of Selene now, yet all he could do was obsessively replay her past kindness in his mind.

Suddenly, the door swung open.

Blinding light from the hallway flooded the room. Instinctively, Harrison turned away, squinting as the glare outlined the silhouette of a slender woman.

Selene stepped in, a plastic bag swinging from her hand.

Without a word, she stormed over and unleashed a flurry of furious kicks into his side, venting her anger on him.

He couldn’t dodge. The pain forced a guttural cry from his throat.

Selene had even changed into pointed high heels for the occasion—she knew full well that, beneath his dress pants and shirt, angry purple bruises already mapped his skin.

After the tenth or twelfth kick, when she finally seemed marginally satisfied, Selene set the plastic bag on the floor and flashed him a bright, almost mocking smile. “I brought you something to eat.”

“Take it or leave it,” Selene snapped.

Did he still think he was some spoiled trust fund kid?

He was a captive now—no room left for pickiness.

She turned to leave, but Harrison, his voice raw and desperate, called after her, “Where’s the spoon? Give me some utensils!”

Selene glanced back. “You think you can use a spoon like this?”

Harrison hesitated, then snapped, “How am I supposed to eat?”

She gave him a dazzling, cruel little smile. “Well, I guess now’s the time to test your skills—and your flexibility.”