Page 11 of The Vixen

Abusive father.

Obsessive compulsive disorder.

Self consciousness that finally makes sense.

Vulnerabilities and patterns of behavior that can be mapped, analyzed, and manipulated, just as thoroughly as anyone else.

My wrists gently tug at the rope binding me to the chair. Eager to sit next to her. Make myself level.

“Do you even know the type of man you’re dealing with?”

She smiles; huffs a laugh. “I know exactly who you are, Sawyer Hansley.”

“Yeah?”

Her hands fan in confirmation.

“Then how did I make my money?”

“You mean other than your multi-million dollar?—”

“How did I get the island in the first place, Luna? Who am I outside of that context?”

Silence. Her lips thin as her fingers begin to drum her thigh.

All the photos I saw in her safe room. All the notes she took about me.

She knows as little about me as I do her.

“You said you owned an investment firm with a talented business partner.”

Correct.

“Asharkof a business partner. The kind of man who’d burn your house down because your lawn looked better than his.

“One time, he dragged me on a flight from France to Minnesota in the dead of winter so we could bid on some po-dunk farm that used to belong to one of our competitor’s in-laws. We paid ten million more than it was worth, just to out-bid the guy in front of his family. You would not believe the lengths he would go through just to prove his sack was bigger than yours.”

The cuffs strain against my wrists as I lean forward. “The good news for you, Luna, is that I’m not that petty. I’m not going to laugh my way back to the mines just so I can die with the knowledge that you’ve failed.”

Her chest rises as she shifts. The movement is subtle, but it’s telling. Nervous. Afraid I’ll say no.

“And the bad news?” she asks, her pitch just slightly high as she crosses her arms over her chest.

“The bad news is that I’ve made a billion dollars familiarizing myself with psychological warfare. I know I have a hand to play here, and it isn’t enough for me to just ‘do what you say or be tortured.’ I want freedom.”

She raises her shoulders. “And you’ll have it. You give me what I need, and?—”

“No.” I sputter out a laugh. “I mean I want freedomnow. I want you to untie me. I want your friends to keep their whips to themselves. And I want to be able to take a piss, in a toilet, by myself, with the door closed.”

Seconds drag as she looks away—face perfectly neutral, lips perfectly still. Eyes glazed.Carefullyconsidering letting me take a piss alone, when a minute ago she didn’t hesitate to promise my freedom.

My intelligence has never been more insulted.

“You’re right… You have a hand to play.” She faces me. “You’re obviously not going to be allowed to freely scout the woods searching for a way out, and you are not permitted to interact with our general population. But … your bedroom is in my quarters, as is your bathroom. Both have cameras. Neither have Keepers with whips hovering over you. The library is yours to browse, the computer is yours to work at—bearing in mind everything you do on screen is being monitored from a control room, and you’ll need someone present to operate it… I think all of that matches your definition of freedom.”

“Mycurrentdefinition.”

She stares a moment, then, “Your current definition.”