Page 3 of Milk & Malice: Vadik (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #6)

Vadik

The extended versions of The Nutcracker and Swan Lake played on loop in the background. The Pakhan’s ruthless reputation for blood, torture, and mayhem had slowed the intake of patients for me.

The krolik picked up the slack, providing me with men and women who sold children. Unfortunately, there weren’t that many women—but it gave me an opportunity to test two.

This one was old, but the hormone implant still made her mammary glands leak. At least her joints were healthy enough for the procedure. She didn’t appreciate being scalped, but that was the least of her worries. I was about to saw the top of her skull off to check the bone density and use the microscrews to see if my theory would work in practice.

I hummed over the saw as the music reached its crescendo.

Glad I had the hindsight to gag her.

Women’s screams were worse than the men’s—higher-pitched. Piercing.

Blood splattered on my mask.

I fucking loved my job.

I’d have done it all for free.

***

Three a.m. was the time I chose to whisk my milk cow away into the night.

It was the quietest hour—between the last drunk and the first commuter. The time when even the moon seemed disinterested in what might unfold beneath it. The security cameras had been painted earlier that week. Precision work. Not sloppy spray—brushed on slowly, layer by layer, until every lens blinked black.

My apartment was already emptied, sterilised. Wiped clean like a surgical tray. What few tools I needed were packed and waiting in the vehicle.

The crate was padded. Temperature-controlled. Humane.

Of course.

She drank it every night. Her sweet little indulgence. That overpriced, organic black cherry drink with the glass bottle and the gold lid. She liked how it tasted. She never once questioned the pills in it. Tonight’s dose was higher. Enough to quiet her, not kill her. I’d calculated every milligram.

Lena lay curled inside the laundry cart, limbs folded like laundry still warm from the dryer. Her skin had flushed from the sedative. Delicate. Breath light. Muscles loose and obedient.

I chuckled as I adjusted her arms, tucking them tight against her chest.

She looked peaceful—almost serene.

Soon, that wouldn’t be a problem.

Soon, folding her limbs wouldn’t be necessary at all.

***

Viktor was proficient enough to continue with my work. The clumsy oaf managed to work those chunky sausage fingers carefully enough to inflict precise pain. The careful slicing, severing the correct nerves, and cracking the chest open. His dick work had definitely improved.

My time off was agreed with the Pakhan. Never had I taken a single day off in four years. But this was my time.

I glanced at the rearview mirror, but the laundry cart was in the trunk.

It was our time together.

Doctor, and patient.

Owner, and cow.

I turned the music on and wondered about the cranial measurements I took before putting her in the vehicle.

She was in excellent condition.

She was only twenty-four years old.

Prime milking years left in her.

I tapped the steering wheel and hummed with the music.

Everything was dull before.

Just another body.

Another cut.

Now?

I was excited.

Alive.

Loving my work again.

***

The hedges masked the property entirely—rows of dense, manicured growth wrapping around it like a secret. Even the trees were placed with intention. Mature trunks, spaced for visibility gaps that didn’t exist. To the outside world, there was nothing here.

To me?

It was paradise.

The gate creaked open as I unlocked it by hand, the metal cold under my gloves. I always locked it after.

No one could come in.

No one could leave.

The house itself was unassuming, but the extension was where my genius lived. The barn conversion stretched the length of the property. One side was the operating theatre—fully equipped, clinically lit, stainless steel gleaming.

The other was her enclosure: padded flooring, tether points, soft lighting, carefully chosen ventilation.

Clean. Sterile. Purpose-built.

Below it, beneath a trapdoor hidden under a rug, was the second floor.

That one was for discipline.

If she was bad, she would see it.

Only then.

I parked the car inside the garage, away from sight. The rear hatch lifted with a soft hiss as I wheeled the cart out, guiding it across the tile and into the operating room. The wheels clacked over the threshold.

This was it.

The moment I’d waited for.

She didn’t stir when I lifted her.

Her breathing was soft. Steady.

The sedative held.

I laid her gently onto the operating table, her body limp under my hands. She was warm. Supple.

Compliant.

The monitor came online as I attached the leads—chest, finger, scalp. A steady pulse lit up the screen in green waves. I inserted the IV line into the external jugular—fast access, low risk of arterial puncture.

Her vitals held.

Beautiful.

I reached for the shears and began cutting her clothes away, slicing through cotton and lace without ceremony. She wouldn’t need them again.

The music began—Swan Lake, extended version.

My favourite section queued perfectly.

The violins climbed. The piano shimmered.

I scrubbed my hands and elbows in the basin.

Hot water. Disinfectant.

Ritual.

Respect.

I dried them, pulled the gloves on one finger at a time.

Latex snapped into place.

Fitted. Precise.

My tools were already sterilised, arranged, waiting.

Scalpel. Bone saw. Sutures. Titanium pins.

The mask came next.

I adjusted the straps and centred the shield.

The music reached its sweet spot.

My fingers hovered over the switch.

Then—

The saw roared to life.

I smiled beneath the mask.

It was time to begin.

***

I spent over two weeks working on her limbs and skull. The amputations required clean cuts and full cauterisation. She needed time to heal—time for the nerve endings to settle, for the inflammation to subside. I monitored for infection, thrombosis, and any signs of tissue rejection.

Skin grafts would follow in another two weeks.

I couldn’t risk adhesion failure.

No, she needed to remain under until the worst of the pain response was over.

The cortical feedback loop had to reset.

The mammary implants could wait.

Her body needed to stabilise first.