Page 62 of Milk & Malice: Vadik
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I reached for my phone with a yawn while mentally calculating the sets I needed to do in the gym this morning. I flicked to Lena’s feed, and a slow smile spread across my face when I saw the pillow stuffed between her thighs. It would be nice to see her try to get off against the pillow, humping it like a needy little whore.
I reached beneath the waistband of my shorts.
Because I was no better.
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“Not like that,” I snapped, grabbing the scalpel from his fat, useless sausage fingers.
“God, Vadik. You're getting regular pussy now, why are you still so angry?” Viktor groaned.
“Think of it as peeling a grape. The scalpel needs to slide through the skin smoothly, not like a fucking hacksaw,” I said, making smooth incisions until the skin came away from the rib bones.
He leaned in and watched as I continued to slice through the skin. It was Daniil’s last day today, but then we would move on to the culprits to whom he fed the information. I enjoyed decapitation. The heads would be returned to the opposing faction—a message from the Pakhan.
“Get your fingers in there and you’ll see his skin will open like a pair of curtains now,” I said, placing the scalpel on the table.
The glass-lined dick helped keep him silent. His eyes were practically dead. There was only the odd muscle twitch or grunt.
“I miss the days when it was a bullet to the head,” Viktor said as he stripped back the skin.
“You wouldn't be here with me if you thought that,” I said, shaking my head at his constant need for dramatics.
“True. This is a fun way to relax.”
I exhaled deeply through my nose.
I knew how I wanted to relax, and here I was, twenty-three days later, still waiting for my pet to surrender.
Stubborn little cow.
I’d make her pay.
Eventually.
Chapter 27
Lena
The soft music played on the television. I’d never enjoyed classical music before Dr Novikov, but I could feel it in my bones now. I understood why so many people were drawn to it. Some compositions were violent, others gentle. It didn’t matter if it was a symphony, sonata, or concerto—they all made me think of him.
How broken must he be to create me into this?
And feel nothing.
He took from me in barbarity but cared for me with tenderness.
The silence between us stretched, and the tension was so tight it strangled the space between us. I missed being touched. It didn’t matter if it was a pet on the head or one of his more sensuous moves. I hated the suction cups—they were a stark contrast to his soft lips.
I stared at my reflection.
It wasn’t so bad, was it?
I was alive.
He never once tried to force himself on me.
