Page 54 of Milk & Malice: Vadik

His fingers slipped under my chin, lifting my head. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I kept my eyes closed as more hot tears slid free.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't order me to continue.

His fingers fell away from my face.

My head dipped down.

He thinks he made me beautiful. The mirrors made me think I was, but the fact was that I would never use my hands again. I could never stand up on my feet again.

I moved back on the bed, lying on my side, curling what remained of my limbs into me as the slow tears became soft sobs.

I covered my face with my mutilated stumps—trying to hide myself. It was stupid really. I couldn't ever hide from him.

I felt the heat of his chest rest on my back. There was only silence. He let me weep but the bastard put his arm around me. It only made me cry harder.

I eventually cried myself to sleep. A pitiful dreamless sleep of a thing that once used to be a human.

???

When I woke up, he was gone. The ache in my breasts reminded me of what he’d made me.

Livestock. An animal.

A cow to be milked.

Or fucked.

I shuffled off the warm bed and walked to the water fountain, pushing the round button. Cold water splashed over my face. I should have been grateful he didn’t threaten me or force me to continue, but I was fresh out of gratitude. My mind flickered to Stumpy before I tilted my head and drank.

I knew what Dr. Novikov was capable of. The way he zoned out sometimes. Always calm. Always in control. That made him worse. What would he do if he snapped? What would he doto me? He didn’t treat me like a treasured pet. I was just an extension of his surgical talent. A monument to his ego.

I closed my eyes as memories of all the sex came rushing back—every fuck, every groan, every high. He always made me feel good. I thought I could live like this. Ignore it all. Just pretend. Stay silent.

But I was wrong. I’m weak.

An ordinary teacher.

Or I was.

I dragged my hooves back to the bed. Sliding them along the floor, listening to the metal scrape over the wood. This was how I’d always walk now. When I reached the bed, I flopped down onto the edge and stared at the metal cylinders of the milking machine.

What kind of sick person would dream all this up—let alone carry it out?

Would I die alone in this room?

If he died, I’d die with him.

No one to feed me. No one to milk me.

I sighed. These thoughts weren’t new. I’d forced them out before. Buried them.

I didn’t want to end up like Stumpy—just a head and torso, breathing but already dead.

Maybe he’d be merciful and kill me?

I thought of the coldness in his eyes and shivered.