Page 22 of The Vixen

I sit on the bench with my boots inches from his knees. My hands press firmly against my lap lest they dare tremble. “Now… I want you to kiss me.”

His brow wrinkles.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Hansley, you are not a guest nor a brother in the Shadow Sanctum. You are a Dreg, or, as you called it, a slave. I can give you food, shelter, a longer leash, and I can even give you kindness, but I can’t allow you to disrespect my orders. You are to submit to me,always… If an electric bath will not do the trick, we’ll need to practice in ways that you can understand. So… Kiss me.”

He blinks. Seconds pass.

“Where?”

My pulse jumps.

Silly. Childish.

I breathe evenly, slowly, calming my heart rate before I speak. “Where would you like to kiss me, Dreg?”

Sawyer squints.

And it’s as if my skin is translucent.

My throat thickens, but I don’t chance him seeing me swallow. Inescapable heat creeps over my cheeks.

“My feet,” I blurt because it’s stupid to give him choices. Choices are control. Choices are power.

He looks down at my feet before flicking his eyes at the door. The knife at my ankle floats into my mind, but I suspect it never left Sawyer’s.

Would he kill me if he knew there was no Keeper on the other side of the door?

Would he consider it?

“Well? What’ll it be, Dreg? Submission or defiance?”

“That depends,Head Keeper. What happens if I choose defiance?”

I turn my eyes pointedly to the dildo and don’t elaborate.

A slight grimace tugs at the corner of Sawyer’s mouth before he shifts onto one knee. Then pats his thigh. “Let’s have it then.”

Pulse jump.

Dear God.

I clear my throat and raise my boot to rest on his thigh—a king waiting for a shoe shine. Domineering, if not for the sweat clamming my hands. Powerful yet powerless as Sawyer looks up at me, crystal irises searching my face as he unties the black laces of my boot. He makes no contact with my flesh, and yet, I feel his fingertips slide up my legs.

I steady my breath while he removes the boot, then my sock—and sets both on the floor.

He carefully plants my heel on his thigh, searing my naked ankle with his hand. His gaze drifts to my foot, to unpolished nails, toes a bit too long. To skin that is, like the rest of my body, far too pale, made grotesque by a fat, blue vein that spiderwebs toward my toes. No complexion hides the harshness of bone protruding from skin. I’m an actual skeleton from the ankles down, seeing my feet for the first time.

I should’ve had him kiss my hand.

Sawyer gently lifts the sole of my foot to his lips. His touch is delicate, eyes holding vicious intimacy as he stares into mine. Daring me to look away. Daring me to watch. Cinderella, rewritten. No glass. Just teeth.

Warm lips plant to my heel before moving up the arch in slow, measured pauses. He takes my ankle and bends my foot forward until my big toe grazes wet, hot flesh.

He looks up at me.

I hold my breath, my posture coming into awareness—leaned forward, lips parted, grasping the edge of the bench.

He’d be right to mock me.