Page 4 of The Vixen

The Keep means less security.

Less security means more opportunity.

Opportunity equals freedom.

But as I’m shoved forward so hard I fall at Luna’s feet, the tunnel has never had more appeal. The predictability of pain and death have never felt so tolerable.

Things I know about “Luna”:

She’s disturbingly cunning.

Repulsively cruel.

And whatever she has planned is not for my benefit.

CHAPTER 2

LUNA

Abath has already been drawn by the time Sawyer, Aiden, and I reach the washroom in my quarters.

Steam rises from the tub and carries the scent of lavender petals floating atop the water, fanning its heat across the room until moisture warms both sides of my neck and tickles the backs of my ears. Along the walls of the room are vanilla scented candles that flicker and fight the lavender.

Sawyer’s sour stench overpowers it all.

Not only the reek of earth and sweat, but the metallic tang of infection—cheese left to spoil. Two gashes on his back seem to be the bulk of the source. Each slice of ripped tissue is red and angry, pus clinging to the edges. My nose wrinkles as I inspect each until he turns toward me with eyes as foreign as his smell. Expectant. Silent. Angry.

“Undress,” I command, my hands clasped behind me as I slowly make my way toward the bath. Sawyer doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Not even as my fellow Keeper, Aiden, steps forward with his electric baton. It crackles as Aiden jabs Sawyer’s side, the sound so sharp a tingle dances along my ribs. Sawyer merely grunts and hunches as he rubs the two-pronged burn. As if he might ease the ricochet throttling his nerves.

Useless.

I open my mouth … then close it.

I would never repeat myself for another Dreg.

Sawyer lengthens his spine and looks straight ahead with the most furious eyes even as his blue lips shudder. As he kicks off a shoe, his jaw ticks as if the maneuver is painful.

A good sign. The nerves aren’t too damaged.

He kicks off the other before moving to his shorts and boxers, unveiling the full extent of his suffering. Skin that’s freezing and blue, dirty and scraped, bruised and scarred. It’s only been a few weeks, but his body has already begun eating the fat around his sunken collarbone and cheeks. The necklace I once fingered while he spoke of its significance is missing.

I stare too long, breath caught in my lungs. When I catch Aiden watching me, I release it.

Bending over the tub, I drag the backs of my fingers across the warm water. Not hot enough to shock Sawyer’s body but warm enough to ease his trembling.

“Get in the bath.”

Without hesitation, Sawyer eases into the tub, cringing as sensation bites his skin back to life. When he’s seated, I tap the porcelain. “Hands on the sides. Do not move them.”

His eyes point straight ahead as he curls his fingers over both sides of the tub and grips until his red knuckles go white. I watch until he releases—only a few seconds before the pain makes himrelent. Unless a Dreg is a troublemaker, it’s usually the hands that receive the worst injury.

Aiden drags a low stool over for me to sit and offers me a cloth one shade lighter than his long, ginger hair. A belonging of Zephyr’s. She was always trying to add color to my life.

I close my eyes a moment before accepting the offering. “Thank you, Aiden.”

He distances himself while I perch on the stool and dip the rag, a petal sticking to the cloth. I peel it off and wring water over Sawyer’s shoulder. He tenses but remains silent with his hands obediently grasping the sides of the tub.