Page 12 of The Vixen

“Great. So?” I tug at the cuffs.

Swiping her palms on her pants, Luna surveys the abandoned food. The look alone is enough for my stomach to contract, but I don’t let it show on my face. I don’t ask for more.

If she feeds me, she’s above me. If she’s above me, she has all the power.

She hops off the table and kneels between my legs. Her head hangs while she unties the rope at my ankle. The cuffs stay on—part of the uniform, I imagine.

Too soon to fight it.

“At the desk in your room is a blank piece of paper and a pencil… I want you to write down the names of five women from your island who you believe could easily assimilate here. I’ve included a list of women who’ve been identified or interviewed to exclude, so don’t think of drawing the police.”

Luna begins on the other ankle while my jaw draws tight. I roll my neck, eyes trained on a black and white painting of a forest, secured to the wall in a blood-red frame.

Fucking redundant.

“Please keep in mind, they will only have a few weeks before their purification ceremony. They must be obedient and open-minded?—”

I belt a laugh, my lips settling in a sneer. “You mean the ceremony where you drown them in the river? Should they be open-minded about that too, or is it just the shitty food and rape I have to sell?”

She rises slowly before moving onto my wrists. “You don’t have to understand our practices. You only have to get them here and get them compliant.”

“No.”

Her hands pause.

“Not them.”

She squints. “They’re already primed. If you choose those who trust you, it’ll be easiest?—”

“Exactly. Theytrustme. Ortrustedme… I’m not helping you bring them here so you can drown them in a river and shove turkey basters up their snatches. I’ll do what you want, but I get to choose who it’s done to. And it won’t be any of the island women.”

Her eyes close, as if she’s working to control the rage that surfaces—but then… The rope she clutches trembles against the cuff. My eyes draw to the slight shake of her hand, slender and pale. Capable of fierce brutality. Capable of masterful imitation.

She could be faking this. She’s faked fear many times before.

When her eyes open, the trembling stops. She stands, her spine straight, her shoulders back. Without looking at me, she smooths her sweater and steps around the chair. “Then I’m afraid you’re useless to me… In the morning, a Keeper will come for the paper. If you haven’t done what I’ve asked, you’ll be taken back to the mines. There will be no opportunity to change your decision, so choose wisely.”

With that, she leaves.

Spine straight.

Head high.

Like she hasn’t just shown me exactly where to press.

CHAPTER 4

LUNA

Debussy’sClair de Lunedrifts through the entryway to my father’s study, its hypnotic piano notes texturized by a subtle rustling that give old vinyls their charm.

My skin flushes while my stomach flips, though I can hardly explain why the melody unsettles me. I don’t like it. I’ve never liked it.

Neither Father nor his companion, Persephone, look up as I enter. Their noses kiss as Father whispers something, making Persephone’s full, pink lips twitch. Her bronzed cheeks are flushed, but I imagine that has more to do with the forbidden liquor balanced on her knee than embarrassment or lust.

My eyes find his hand on her knee, the white material of her dress hiked. It makes me feel something, but I can’t say what. A tingle runs over my spine. My lungs feel smaller.

I cup my hands in front of me and lift my eyes just above their heads before clearing my throat.