Page 9 of The Vixen

Cold eyes fix on me. “Is that true, Dreg? Are you ready to behave?”

That taste again—stronger.

Aiden’s elbow jabs between my shoulder blades.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

My teeth tap six times.

“Very good… Come then.”

Before I have a chance to lift my foot, Aiden barrels past with the leash woven around his fist. He drags me to Luna and shoves me into the chair directly in front of her. When I go to lift my head, he forces it back down.

I stare at Luna’s thighs wrapped in black wool—an exact match to her sweater. Free of any design or ornament, but flattering with the way it lays over a poised body. Sophisticated. Timeless. High quality, yet practical. The same taste I saw before, when she was supposed to be a captive.

Anyone can hide their name, their occupation, their upbringing. Almost no one can hide who they truly are.

I may have gotten things wrong, but I wasn’t blind.

My chin stays lowered while I look up through my lashes and meet irises as icy as tonight’s sky. Neither of us blink while Aiden loops rope through a ring in the metal cuffs to secure me to the chair. I must look angry, but Luna… She shows nothing at all—no humanity, no regret—as she watches me carefully, that little smirk she had before now gone.

The smell of rosemary and butter drag at my stomach, but I don’t allow my eyes to shift first. A small victory, but painfully important.

It isn’t until Luna’s throat clears that I realize Aiden has stood.

“Thank you, friend.” She dips her head at him, giving him the signal to go stand at the end of the table and stare at us.

“You must be hungry,” Luna says to me as she picks apart the chicken. A glossy coat of grease paints the pads of her finger and thumb.

As drool collects in one corner of my mouth, I rub it on the shirt Aiden gave me. A black duplicate of the brand I wear—tag freshly ripped. The golf pants hugging my legs are the same material as the shorts I wore here. Even the shoes are pristine replicas of the tattered Nikes I lost in the mines.

Luna brings a piece of chicken to my lips. Grease coats the chapped skin, but I don’t open my mouth.

As if to remind me of my earlier punishment, my shoulder spasms. Sensitivity lingers in my nerves, an invisible current still whispering beneath the skin. My mind would rather die than eat from this woman’s hand while my body begs for reprieve. It’s confusing. And frustrating. And overstimulating.

And I understand. For the very first time, I understand why some women on my island chose punishment or even death over assimilation.

I told them they were senseless. Stubborn. Too stupid to survive.

My eyes close. As I force my jaw open, my pride fractures, but pride is useless for survival.

Luna wedges the chicken inside until rosemary starts to override the perpetual taste of blood. Turning my head away, I chew. Slowly. Painstakingly. It’s harder to eat now than it was yesterday when I filled my belly with cabbage slime.

Luna brushes her hands together. “You may go now, Aiden. I can take it from here.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I’ll wait out?—”

“No.” Luna scrapes a helping of mashed potatoes onto the tip of her index finger. “Go home. Be with Sylvie… I said I can take it from here.”

Hesitation, but then…

“Yes, Your Grace. Have a good night.”

Luna watches him leave before she turns back to me. White hair hangs in her face as she peers down. She drags several strands behind an ear, then hovers the mashed potato finger in front of my mouth.

For a moment, she looks like a girl.

Beautiful. Innocent.