Page 95 of The Vixen

A muscle jumps in my cheek. The fire must be less inviting because I get the urge to turn around and walk away as quickly as I came. Curl up in my bed to combat the cold, though the temperature of my bedroom hardly receives warmth. There are no fireplaces in my quarter.

As if protesting the move, my fingers tingle as I turn around. I curl my fists beneath my sweater and cringe as the cold bites my stomach.

Don’t bestubborn.

Shoulders stiff, I march to the fireplace and fall to my knees. My eyes close as the heat calms the tremor in my hands and thaws the ice sticking to my thighs. I sigh; let my head hang. Warmth spreads on my scalp as I bow to the flames.

A sniffle sounds at the table behind me. I open my eyes but don’t turn that way.

Go home. I want to snap so badly but keep my mouth shut as something in my gut pinches. It’ll stop. It’ll?—

Another sniffle.

Does shewantme to hear?

Father would never tolerate such theatrics…

Or would he?

Though my head is still bowed, flames lick heat over both sides of my face. My ears ring as if my body and mind finally align—we don’t want to hear this.

With the ringing comes a voice inside my head:Warriors do not cry,my sweet. Spoken the first time Father came into my room.

I didn’t listen. I cried into my pillow like the stupid little girl I was.

The next day, I learned what pain was. My lungs burn at the memory, and though I’m staring at the fireplace, it’s the rocks atthe bottom of the river I see, my gurgled screams in my ears as a Keeper held me in place beneath the water.

Then as if time skipped, the next image is Father with his hand on my back, patting gently as I gasped past the lingering water in my lungs. He told me I’d been cured of my weakness.Purified.

I believed him. In the twelve years since, I’ve only once felt the need to cry.

Another sniffle makes me flinch, and my body heaves toward the fire. My molars grind as I pull back.

Evil. Bitter. Horrid. Irredeemable.

All words that describe me for the thoughts that enter my mind. In some ways, Sawyer is right. Persephone is a child. You’d have to be a monster to wish them ill.

But I can’t help but wonder… Why isn’t she being cured of her weakness? Why does she get to be impure?

Perhaps Father doesn’t know.

A breath shudders past my lips as I flatten my palms on my knees and stand. Persephone seems to shrink as I go to her, her hand jerking to swipe away a tear that escaped from her puffy eye. It’s red with the slightest bit of purpling setting in. Obviously not a hard hit but hard enough to make her cower like a wounded dog.

I walk past her into the kitchen to retrieve an ice pack, and after setting it in front of her, I take the chair catty corner to hers. She’s slow to pick it up, as if she thinks I’m testing her. Finally, she brings the pack to her eye and cringes as it touches swollen flesh.

“You’d be wise not to anger him,” I say, though that isn’t a lesson I’ve seemed to learn.

Avoiding provocation was easier when I was her age. I couldn’t see Father’s flawed thinking back then, couldn’t blame him for the impurities he put in his body. He’s a bastard whenhe’s drunk, but I learned to maneuver his moods. I gotverygood at being exactly what I was supposed to be at any given moment.

Now—not as much.

“Yes, Head Keeper,” Persephone nearly whimpers. So feeble.Toofeeble for my world.

That thought is echoed with Sawyer’s voice. It stings behind my ears, making me clench my teeth and cringe.

“He thinks I scratched his record.” She grips the bottom of her chair and puffs her lip as she looks to me for understanding. “I wouldnevertouch his things without permission.”

“Did you tell him that?”