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"Buggering shit of a whoreson," the brute said.
Dom opened his eyes with an effort. He was floating, his mind and body both for once at ease, in a way he was becoming used to on these Wednesday evenings. But the brute's tone of voice was—odd, almost shaken, in a way Dom didn't think he'd heard from him in the past week of Wednesdays.
He made his eyes focus on the brute's face, but the brute wasn't looking at him. He was looking at the pillow on which Dom's head rested, and his face was creased in a scowl. "Sit up," he told Dom abruptly. His hands were on Dom before Dom could choose to move, supporting him not ungently as he forced his body to sit up.
The brute was kneeling next to the bed, his scowl growing deeper. He kept one hand on Dom's shoulder, but put the other on the side of his head, tilting it to inspect his scalp. Bemused, Dom let him. He was, to put it frankly, not in the habit of habit of refusing the brute anything he wanted, not after his initial protests had been overcome.
"Poxed bollocks," the brute said, and stood up abruptly. Dom swayed, oddly dizzy. He closed his eyes, but managed to stay sitting up.
The brute was back, his hands steadying on Dom's shoulders again. "Here," he said gruffly, and pressed something damp to the back of Dom's head.
"What—" Dom said, but his hand came up to hold it. It smelled like—wine? "Is that the Bordeaux?" he said, half-horrified. He knew he was foolish to order wine for these evenings, hoping that the brute would enjoy it, but it really was beyond the pale to find good wine soaking a cloth on his head and trickling down the back of his neck.
"Ay, and thank me for it," the brute said sharply. "You've got a bleeding cut on the back of your thick skull, I grabbed what was to hand."
"Oh," Dom said dumbly. He looked down at the bed, and sure enough there was a streak of blood along the headboard where his head must have hit, a larger smear across the pillowcase. He would have to compensate Mistress Zoe for the cleaning of it.
"Head wounds always bleed disproportionately," he said, but he held the cloth where the brute had placed it. "I'm sure it will be fine shortly."
The brute was looking at him, narrow-eyed. "They do, do they," he said. It wasn't a question. "Had your share of head wounds, then?"
"My share," Dom repeats.
The brute says nothing, only continues to look at him.
"Well, boyhood tumbles and the like," Dom tries, but the brute's face looks even more forbidding. "And—other kinds of tumbles," he admits with a sigh. It hadn't been many—the scrape of a brick wall against his scalp, a cut when an obliging gentleman had neglected to take his ring off before backhanding Dom across the face.
"Right," the brute said grimly. "Well. None of that with me, not from now on. Keep it there," he said sharply as Dom started to lower his hand. Dom obeyed without thought. "Listen, Tory, when I want you to hurt, you'll know it. And when you're hurt in a way that I—that isn't how I meant you to hurt, you're to tell me." He seems to hesitate, almost, although Dom doesn't think he's ever seen the brute hesitate to do or say anything before. "You'll hurt how I want you to, and not a drop of blood more or less." His voice is firm, but his mongrel eyes flicker up to Dom's, then away.
"Right," Dom says faintly. If he were a younger man, he might be begging for a second round. Instead he manages to say, "That's perfectly fair. I will tell you if anything like this should happen again." He has to swallow, but manages to add, "I promise." It comes out a little softer than he intended, but the brute is looking at him squarely now, the scowl entirely gone.
The brute doesn't say anything, though, just nods and turns away towards the sideboard and the wine. He pours it—into a glass this time, thankfully. Dom keeps the cloth to his head. He does truly think the bleeding will end very quickly, but it does no harm to do as the brute has asked him to do. As the brute has told him to do.
"Have you heard of this Frankenstein book, just come out?" the brute says, still focused on his wine, and Dom relaxes. It appears they are not going to talk of it any further. Dom tries to keep his mind—and his prick—off the echo of You'll hurt how I want you to still ringing in his ears, and give his full attention to the conversation.