Page 21 of The Vixen

A half mile away, Thorne sleeps in my bed, his arm draped where my body was only an hour ago. By now, he’s snoring. Oblivious to my absence.

My fingers curl into fists beneath the water as the sound of his heavy breaths pound my ear as if he’s standing next to me. As if I’m still in bed staring at the ceiling while he tries his best to pretend I’m my late sister. Even his release carried an undeniable frustration we both chose to ignore.

Not a day has passed that I haven’t mourned Zephyr.

But today the space she left feels bottomless.

CHAPTER 7

LUNA

Ishut off the water. Dry my hands.

When I return to the training room, Sawyer is just as I left him. Body still. Breaths heavy. His face showing unbreakable composure.

His eyes never touch my back as I go to the workbench and open a bottom drawer, grating metal ominously cutting through silence. I pull out a purple dildo with a girth the size of a fat orange.

When I turn, I find Sawyer’s glazed eyes pointing straight ahead. Gone to hide in his mind while somehow managing to keep that righteous, hateful look on his face.

Truly impressive.

“What exactly were you planning on doing with this?” I tap the instrument against my palm as I walk to the bench.

Sawyer doesn’t answer until I kneel in front of his face and rest the dildo beneath his chin. Murderous eyes meet mine.

“I like to be prepared.”

My brows raise as I nod. “Ah.”

“I can tell you what I’d do with itnow… If you’d like.”

I set the dildo on the floor before pulling my knife from its sheath at my ankle. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Luna.”

When I glance up from the knife, my breath catches. His glare has softened, baby blue irises on full display.

No follow up to my name. No plea, no threat. Just…Luna. It takes too long to realize he thinks I might cut him.

I force my gaze to the rope binding his wrists and carefully fit the knife beneath it. “Hold still…”

I saw one wrist free before making my way to the rest of his body. Once I’ve resheathed the knife, he sits up on the bench, his eyes averted as he rolls his ankles to return blood flow.

I point to the spot at my feet. “Kneel… Face the bench.”

Unsurprising: he doesn’t move.

Surprising: he doesn’t glare.

He holds my gaze for a beat too long, his expression impassive.

Slowly, he shifts onto his knees, face twisted in a cringe as he turns. Sore and bruised, but not even close to beaten.

Pressure loosens in my chest as I rake my eyes over his back, traveling a path from the nape of his neck to the tension in his shoulders. To the angry slices marring the rare patch of otherwise pristine skin.

As I approach, I reach for his hair—wild strands of sandy blonde somehow more tempting than freshly groomed waves. But I pause. Let my hand hover.

Then ruffle the blond locks. “Good boy.”