Page 27 of The Vixen

I watch his expression for remorse. For grief. For something.

All he does is frown. I can’t tell if I hate him or if I’m relieved.

“Is every other young, impressionable woman dead?”

“You won’t have access,” I snap.

His lips purse as he gives a slow nod. “Okay, well… What do you want me to say, Luna? Torture away?”

I lower my eyes to the scars on his chest, my fingers itching with the urge to trace them. Funny how we covet the ugly once familiar.

“No… No more torture.” I tuck hair away from my face before looking over at the pole. “No more games or … late night summons… I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize.”

I turn back to him with my nose wrinkled.

His head tilts as he roams his eyes over my chest, more curious than intimate. I fight the urge to cover myself.

When his gaze meets mine, he must see my confusion. “It makes you look weak.”

“One could argue, refusing to admit when you’re wrong is weakness.”

Not a concept he would easily grasp.

But I think he reads between the lines anyway, his lips curving into a bitter smile. Something flickers in his eyes. So fast I almost miss it.

Head turning, I rub my thumb over my lashes. “You may go, Dreg… We’ve said everything there is to say.”

“No.”

I look at him. He tries to smile, but it looks more like a sneer as he rubs his knees against mine, eyes drifting to my chest once again.

“What are you doing?” I ask, shoulders tense beneath his gaze.

When his knuckles creep up my inner thigh, I grip his wrist. Try to get up. Get caught on his legs wrapped around mine.

“Sawyer.”

“You lied to me,” he says, using my own hold on his wrist to jerk me into him. My chest bumps his as my neck arches. His palm slips in the dip of my spine and holds steady when I try to pull away.

Hit.

Fight.

My nerves squirm with the impulse to attack, but it’s an impulse I’ve had plenty of practice suppressing. Especially around Sawyer.

“Maybe you got scared when I crumpled that paper, but you didn’t bring me here to hurt me… You want me. If you weren’t such a coward, you’d admit it.”

Bait.

It’s just bait.

I don’t respond.

“Tell me where to kiss you, Your Grace,” he coos, voice softening. When his hand skirts up my neck, I close my eyes and hold still as he cups my cheek; glides a thumb down the bridge of my nose. It pauses on a bump, as if sensing the imperfection. As if drawn to it. He traces one smooth circle, the pad of his thumb warming rounded bone.

By the time his thumb slips off the tip of my nose, my face is on fire.