Page 5 of Milk & Malice: Vadik (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #6)

Vadik

How could I have forgotten how emotional women could be? It had to be the hormones. When she couldn’t scream anymore, she began to cry. With a sigh, I left to make myself a coffee. All that hard work perfecting every part of her body. Working day and night to ensure she was healing and felt no pain.

This was the thanks I got?

She should be kissing my feet.

I would be looking after every aspect of her life. All she needed to do was moo and be milked.

Once the kettle boiled, I scooped some coffee into the metal sieve of the glass jug and poured the steaming liquid in. I inhaled the deep, rich scent of coffee. This was a damn good blend.

I watched the black coffee collect in the glass jug.

Soon, I would have fresh milk directly from the source if I chose.

The more proficient method was the milking machine for Lena’s udders, but I was curious about sucking on her enlarged nipples.

The implants were in.

It wouldn’t be long before I would have fresh milk along with fresh chicken eggs.

I poured my coffee into a mug, topping it off with my substandard calves milk, wondering if Lena had stopped crying yet.

This was tedious.

She needed to know the improvements I’d made to her.

***

When I returned, her keening wails had stopped and she cried quietly. Her blue eyes were red-rimmed, and she had snot running down her nose. I set my coffee down, reaching for a few tissues. I pinched her nose and wiped it, then dabbed at her mouth.

Once her face was cleaned, I discarded the tissue in the medical waste bin and washed my hands before sitting beside her again.

Her pissy attitude and furious eyes didn’t bother me.

She was at my mercy.

“I’ll explain what I did first, and then if you have any questions, you may only ask once I have finished. Nod if you understand?”

I said sharply before taking a long sip of my coffee.

When she nodded, my heart fluttered at the thought of telling her my genius plan. I’d not shared it with anyone—and Stumpy didn’t count. He was almost brain-dead.

I took another sip of my coffee and crossed one leg over the other, watching the way her nostrils flared, how her lip trembled. Still trying to process. Still refusing to accept.

“I began with your limbs. Fully cauterised amputations—clean, sealed, no trauma left behind. Both arms to the elbows. Both legs to the knees.”

Her eyes widened. She tried to speak behind the gag, then choked on a sob. I paused to let her cry. Not out of kindness, but because it gave weight to my next words.

“Monitoring was crucial. Infection, necrosis, thrombosis—any of those could’ve compromised the success rate. I cleaned your stumps daily. Dressed them. Cared for you.”

I leaned forward and lowered my voice like I was telling her a bedtime story.

“Your skull was next. A delicate procedure. I opened the scalp, drilled into the bone—carefully, mind you. Anchors were fitted. Internal supports for future work. You have two stunning horns on your head. Then came the grafts—some were your own. Some were harvested.”

Her tears rolled freely now. She shook her head, trying to turn away, but she couldn’t.

I smiled and sipped again.

“Once the grafts had taken, I moved on to the internal fittings. Titanium pins tested for osseointegration. That’s when the bone accepts the implant as its own. Remarkable process. You responded beautifully.”

She whimpered. I ignored it.

“Muscle tension had to be preserved. I stretched your limbs while you were under—daily passive movement. No atrophy. No rigidity. Then I began fitting your hooves. Precision work. I made sure the alignment was perfect—every angle, every shift of pressure. You’ll stand eventually, with my help.”

She started shaking, her chest heaving.

Still, I continued.

“Skin grafts were finalised around the joints. Pressure points around the horn anchors were reinforced. It’s all healing nicely. Better than I expected, honestly. You’re quite resilient.”

I stood, drained the last of my mug, and set it aside.

“You’ve been in recovery for six weeks. A full cycle of surgical prep, maintenance, and aftercare. The real fun begins now. Mobilisation, stimulation, lactation protocols. Your udders have taken beautifully to the implants.”

She let out a muffled scream. I watched her like a man watches a thunderstorm—awed, but untouched.

“You’ll be milked soon, moya milaya korova. Then we begin the behavioural conditioning. One moo at a time.”

My sweet cow.

I patted her hoof gently.

“You’re my greatest achievement, Lena. You should be proud too.”

She didn’t look proud of me.

But that would come.