Page 51 of The Vixen

Don’t beg.Do notbeg.

“Thank you,” I say, relieved when my voice doesn’t shake. “It’s unfortunate, but… I understand.”

When Luna’s hand lifts toward me, I tense. She pauses mid-air, but I can’t tell if it’s because she noticed my reaction. I don’t think so. I hope not.

Her hand rests back in her lap. The air shifts with an inhale, but before she can ask me to leave, I reach for her.

Another inhale—this one sharp as my fingertips trace the thin, satin strap of her top. A night shirt, with satin pants tomatch. When I trail my middle finger over the laced edge just above her breasts, she shudders. But doesn’t speak.

“Did he see your neck?” I travel her sternum to a yellowing bruise the shape of a finger. I hover over the space. A perfect match.

“Who?”

“Aurelius… Or Thorne. Whoever you were fighting with.”

Her hand closes over mine and guides it to the mattress. “My father has little concern for a bruise. I’m sure he assumes he did it himself,” she says with a huff that could be a laugh. Of the humorless sort.

An old train of thought slips in my mind, one of my first reads on Luna. Abuse, mental or physical.

Now it’s confirmed.Both.

“So it was Thorne you were hiding it from.”

Another attempt at a laugh. “My choice of dress is not nearly as conspiratorial as you’re assuming. I wear turtlenecks when it’s cold.”

“Everything you do is conspiratorial,” I volley back. “The way you brush your teeth is conspiratorial.”

“And I suppose your hand grazing mine isn’t.” She looks down pointedly as my pinky pauses its slow climb over her thumb. When she pulls away, I don’t stop her.

“I’m sorry.” I drop my tone low. Just enough to sound remorseful.

She waves dismissively until I catch her wrist and yank her gaze to me. “No,” I say, mimicking the way she looked at me just the other night. The words she said, the way she said them. Just another lie shed between us. “I mean,I’m sorry.”

When I drop my gaze to her neck, her hand floats to a bruise. For a solid count of three, our eyes stay locked.

Then she looks away. “I have work to do, Dreg… Go back to your room.”

I pause—just long enough for her to mistake the hesitation as concern. Or remorse. Or whatever emotion she wants from me.

“Yes, Head Keeper.”

Luna takes the cat as I get up and leave, and as soon as I’m out the door, I allow my face to crack. My breath shudders as my lungs pang, as if they’ve been punched.

What the fuck did Liberty do?

I get back to my room, sit on the bed, and count to one hundred before I grab the trash can and head back to Luna’s room. I don’t knock on the door this time when I enter.

Luna swings around in her computer chair, all three screens lit up with whatever ‘work’ she’s doing. A bulky turtleneck has replaced the camisole. “Sorry to interrupt, Your Grace.” I go to the nightstand and carefully slide the glass into the bin, the clanking filling the silence. My back grows rigid beneath Luna’s gaze.

She stands and walks to me. “What are you doing?”

“I figured you didn’t keep a trash can in your room.” The last of the glass in the can, I give the nightstand several more drags of my hand to remove invisible dust only Luna would be able to sense.

“Why would you assume that?”

Wiping my hand on my pants, I stand.

“Because you don’t keep trash in your room.”