Page 58 of The Vixen

“Love you too,” I say without hesitation. I watch as he leaves, then go back to my computer. Our firstI love youplays in my mind.

Fourteen years old. On a picnic in the woods; Thorne insisted we go back to the place we met. I spent the morning baking his favorite bread and ripped my shirt scaling a tree to fill a jar with fresh honey.

He laid a blanket down, and we watched the sky the same way I loved to watch the stars—with him at my side, calling out everything he saw, prodding me to do the same. When he went quiet, I turned to find him watching me.

He kissed me, and I knew right away that something was different. He used his tongue. He touched me in places he never had before.

He was gentle and kind, and I pretended it didn’t hurt.

When it was over, I rolled onto my side, looked him in the eyes and whispered it first:I love you.

It felt like the right thing to say. It felt like the right thing to mean. Even for someone who isn’t capable of such a thing.

I think he’s forgiven me. I think he knows I’m defective—inside and out—and doesn’t hold me accountable for the affection a lover should provide. Not many mates would be content outsourcing warmth.

Maybethatis love. I don’t know. I hope someday I will.

Another hour passes while I search through the information on a man I would never have considered yesterday. It gets grimmer as I go.

I rub my temples. Shove my keyboard crooked. Hurry to straighten it.

I get up to stretch my legs and head to the kitchen for a glass of water.

A cup sits abandoned by the kitchen sink—Persephone’s, I assume. This isn’t even her home, yet she can’t manage to clean up after herself. Everywhere she walks, there’s dirt from her shoes. Crumbs are left behind wherever she eats. She’s almost as bad as Sawyer.

I hate her.

Cringe.

The thought doesn’t quite land. Isn’t quite right.

I don’t understand my emotions, but I consider them as I wash her glass, then get my own. I sip my water while hugging my stomach, a familiar flipping sensation ricocheting all the way up my chest.

I feel … sickly. My skin is cold and clammy. The grapes Father keeps in a bowl on the counter have gone soft, sweet rot thick in the air.

Sawyer’s disgust enters my mind, the face he made when he saw Persephone in the library. The look he gave me.

Nausea hits.

Shaking my head, I drink the rest of my water and wash my glass. I go back upstairs and stare straight ahead as I pass Sawyer’s door.

My steps slow until I come to a full stop.

When I close my eyes, I’m back in my room with Sawyer in front of me. I feel his lips brush mine, feel his hands cup my face.

It was an act. It’salwaysan act—one I will never fall for again.

And still, I can’t take another step.

My bed looms in my mind: too big, too cold. There’s no ticking clock in my room to break the silence. If I looked, maybe I’d find Cinder lounging by the fireplace or tucked away in the reading nook. But even her presence refuses to ease the itch of …something. Whatever it is that pulls my gaze to the black spilling from beneath Sawyer’s door.

Leave it.

The thought slips, useless.

Go to Thorne.

The idea lands flat. As if I’d risk rejection a second time.