Page 30 of Brutal

Fuck.

I glare at her while I pull my pants back up, not bothering with the belt. The afterglow is gone, and I hate that she ruined it.

Fuck her for being right about ruining the food.

CHAPTER 8

Mimosa

My feet burn every time I try to walk.

I wish I could ignore the pain. I wish I could put on my stoic face, but it hurts so much that every step brings a tear to my eye.

Brutal knows it, too, and the sadistic bastard has decided the most fun thing to do on this first official day of his vacation is to make me walk all over the apartment.

“Go get me a glass of water, Mimi,” he orders, and I have to stand up from where I’m kneeling in front of him, walk all the way to the kitchen — over the rug, onto hardwood, then onto slate tile. The cabinets are so high that I need to get on my tiptoes to pull out a glass. I’m positive he rearranged things last night so the cups would be out of reach, just for this fucking game.

I almost drop the glass because settling back down onto the soles of my feet sends another wave of pain through me.

Fuck.

This is what they call fucking around and finding out, I guess.

I should have played along. I should have been the obedient little doll he wants.

But he doesn’t actually want an obedient little doll, and I don’t want to be one, either. The only thing that has kept me going all these months is the knowledge that I’m clinging to myself. That I’m not just a fucking toy, that I’m a real person who deserves better than all of this.

It’s hard to remember sometimes.

I get the glass filled and make the excruciating walk back to him. The rug is worse than the hardwood, and I wince as I step onto it. The fibers scratch at the cuts.

Is he going to care if the cuts open and I bleed all over the carpet? It’d almost be funny if I got an infection and he had to call his doctor friend again, though. I bet his friend wouldn’t approve.

I almost say that, except I don’t think I can handle another round of caning, no matter what part of my body he decides to hit.

“Your water, Master,” I say tonelessly, holding the water out to him.

“I changed my mind,” he says. “I want a beer instead.”

It’s early to be drinking. We only just had breakfast — which is, as usual, primarily made of meat and potatoes. I’m starting to wonder if he ever eats any vegetable that isn’t a starch. Maybe he’s on one of those fad diets.

I bite my tongue and turn back to the kitchen. I set the glass on the kitchen counter just as a wave of dizziness hits me.

It can’t be because of the pain, right? I’m not so fragile that walking around on my feet is causing this. I grip the counter and take in a few breaths to steady myself.

When I glance down at my feet, I see a smear of blood on the kitchen tile.

Oh.

That would probably do it. I glance along the path I walked, and I see where the first drops of blood mark the floor.

I’m not going to complain though.

“What’s taking so long?” Brutal shouts. “Did you already forget?”

I grit my teeth and force myself to walk to the fridge. There are several brands of beer, and I don’t know which he wants.

No, I know which one he wants. It’ll be the one I don’t bring along.