AnaMadeline hated everything about Brute.
She hated the cheap musk cologne masking his animal stink, which reminded her of a petting zoo orgy.
She detested his forced table manner delicacy – all that napkin folding and pinky lifting.
She loathed the fine clothes covering his monstrous form.
Mostly, she hated the way he looked at her, his yellow, seeping eyes wide with mock innocence when he spoke to her, heavy lidded and staring when he thought she was distracted.
“I have fleas you know,” she said once. “And a third nipple.”