Page 15 of The Vixen

He heaves me upright by the leash, and my eyes open as I balance. Without him giving the command, I start toward the door and focus on the numbers in my head.

Twelve.

Sixteen.

Twenty-four by the time we step outside into the freezing night air. The sound of metal scraping concrete cuts through the silence that follows a snowstorm. A Cultivator shovels the walkway clear, but when we step off the porch and go to take it, the Keeper at my side drags me off the path.

Snow slips into my shoes and bites at my ankles as we cut a trail uphill toward the forest. Toward the mines.

My heartrate tries to climb.

Fifty-seven.

Sixty-three.

We walk along the treeline while my shoulders quake and toes numb. My socks grow damp as more snow finds shelter in my shoes. If Luna were kind, she would’ve given me boots instead.

Of course then, with the black shirt, I’d start to look like a Keeper.

Interesting that she chose black.

One hundred thirty-nine.

The Keeper jerks on the leash to steer me away from the forest, and we cut a path increasingly familiar, even with the world wearing a white veil.

My shoulders fall with an exhale as the training house comes into view. The second story window glows with what could only be lanterns, Luna’s silhouette shifting behind the glass.

I kick snow off my shoes as we enter the house and shake my legs like a dog. My hands rub together while my toes wiggle to life, but the Keeper only gives me a second before carrying the leash’s handle over his shoulder and marching up the stairs.

I stumble after him until we reach the training room where Luna waits—perched on the bench, legs delicately crossed, palms cupped on her knee, her soft lips held in an indecipherable line.

At our entrance, she stands. Gestures to the pole. “Put him there. Collar off, body secure, arms free.”

“Yes, Head Keeper.” He bows before manhandling me to the pole. I try to meet Luna’s eyes, but she won’t look at me.

Once the collar is on the floor and my torso is tied to the pole, Luna makes a sound of approval. “Good… Now wait outside for my command.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Her hands clasp behind her back as she watches him leave. As soon as the door closes, she wanders my way. Expressionless. Eyes never touching mine.

“What the fuck is going on?” I ask. As if it isn’t obvious.

In answer, she places the belt around my neck, her nose inches from mine. She tests it with a light tug, then traces the tip of one jittery finger over the belt’s edge—vanilla scent lifting from her touch. Same as her soap. Her candles. Apparently, her.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Abandoning the belt, she trails the length of my sternum. “I was thinking about all the time we spent in here, and it had me wondering… Has Sawyer ever played his own game?”

The corners of my mouth curve as an amused burst of air pelts her nose. But I don’t speak.

“I bet you haven’t.” She drags her nail down the hollow valley between two of my ribs. When she reaches the end of bone, she descends a rung and repeats. “I bet you have no idea what it feels like for someone to leer at you while you think you're going to die.”

“That must’ve beenreallyhard,” I whisper, taking care not to move my neck too much during speech. Every strum of the vocal cords causes a tiny ratchet of the belt—imperceptible, in the beginning, but I know better.

Shut up.

She sucks in a deep breath. Glides her knuckles up my chest. Caresses along my jaw. Pushes beneath my chin to stop my tapping teeth.

“It was,” she drawls. “But not as hard as it will be for you.”