Page 5 of The Vixen

I repeat the maneuver and wring water onto Sawyer’s chest. The gentle lapping of the rag is both soothing and wrong. Every graze of his skin holds intimacy too inappropriate for the moment. Though they were only meant to be softer on Sawyer’s eyes, every flicker of candlelight feels like a taunt.

Still, I keep my movements slow and delicate, careful not to irritate his wounds. Only when his shaking calms do I squeeze soap onto the cloth and slide it down his arm.

I go about washing him while he stares at the wall, eyes glazed, mind drifting somewhere else. His island, maybe. Just not here. Not with me.

At my prodding, Sawyer leans forward so I can clean the wound on his back. Infected—without question—but not quite as bad as I feared.

“Have you felt chills?” I carefully dab.

No answer.

I pause. Aiden’s boot scuffs the tile as he shuffles, but I raise a hand to keep him still.

Teeth sink into my inner lip while I lie the cloth on the edge of the tub. I run my hand up the back of Sawyer’s neck and over his scalp, fingers combing through thick, luscious hair. Greasy and dirty and somehow, still as pleasant as I’d imagined.

My palm settles on his forehead. Ice cold.

Water laps as his body shifts, and his hands lift off the porcelain only to lay back down.

I remove my hand, pick up the cloth, and go back to tending to the wound.

“How bad is it?” I nearly startle at his voice.

“No fever means no sepsis. You’ll be fine.”

He laughs. His hands leave the sides of the tub to scoop water onto his face. He scrubs at his eyes before laying his hands back on the porcelain. If he knows he’s just been disobedient, he doesn’t show it. There’s no smirk. No mocking glance.

Aiden and I exchange a look. His brow raises.

I shake my head.

“Keep your hands on the sides of the tub, Dreg,” I calmly admonish.

He scoffs.

Brave… Very brave.

When I’ve finished cleaning his wounds, I take a handful of his hair and slowly, gingerly drag him upright. I pour soap into my palm and work to keep my movements mechanical as I wash his scalp.

Oddly challenging.

My fingers collect dirty suds as I glide along blond strands, unusual energy buzzing in my fingertips. I pull back, flex my hands to release it. Only for it to return, thenspread—the sensation jumps up my arms and settles deep in my belly.

Shiver.

I glance at Aiden, but his perpetual glare never leaves Sawyer. Even if he knew what was happening inside my body, he’d never acknowledge it. His loyalty lies with me. The mutilated stump where his ear used to be is forever a reminder of that.

I rinse the rag in the bath—practically rusty mud at this point—before gently smoothing it across Sawyer’s cheekbone, up his temple, across the creases in his brow. Dark purple rings have formed in the sunken valleys beneath his eyes, but otherwise, his pretty boy face has been spared.

“You don’t look so boyish with a beard.”

His head jerks as if my hand has caught fire, sunken cheeks pinching with anger. “Fuck you.”

Aiden snaps toward us but halts just as quickly when I hold up a hand. My eyes never leave Sawyer. “I’ll allow the Dreg a chance to apologize.”

Sawyer glares at me. No trace of appreciation.

I count to three before raising my brows.