Page 46 of The Vixen

“Of Liberty?” I huff, my working jaw bringing attention to the sting on my chin. “Of course. But I’m not just meeting the girl. We have history. I know how to handle her.”

Luna blinks. The longer she stares, the harder it is to keep my feet steady.

“She’ll be given walks… You should welcome the other girl now.” She waves her hand down the hall where five other metal doors ominously await.

“I can talk to six women simultaneously before their personalities jumble…”

Coincidence.

I nod slowly before heading to Aubry’s room.

Upon seeing me, she hops to her feet, tears springing to her eyes. Her fear loosens the more that I talk, and this time, every lie I tell is in Luna’s favor.

It’s hard to say which woman I hate more.

Liberty.

Or Luna.

CHAPTER 13

LUNA

Idon’t like her.

As we walk side by side through the snow-covered meadow beyond the Bower, Liberty’s strides lengthen to push the slightest bit in front of me. A light sweater clings to her arms as she swings them confidently, despite the single digit temperature. The blanket I offered lies in a heap at the house.

Long brown hair slaps her back as she moves, makeup smudged chin raised like a warrior. Long, baby blue nails extend past her fingertips as unnaturally sharp tips—like claws designed for a princess.

Prideful.

Aggressive.

Impulsive.

All qualities that define this woman. None well-suited for a captive.

I increase my strides to fall in line with Liberty and am not the least bit surprised when she speeds up. As I slow, she slows, one pace ahead of me at all times.

Maybe there’s something I’m missing.

Theremustbe something I’m missing.

Sawyer may be attempting sabotage, but this woman recognized him. She was on his island; she washisat one time. He chose her.

After another couple minutes, Liberty’s arms seem to stiffen. Her hands ball into fists, and her steps quicken. It takes a beat to realize she’s trying to keep herself from shivering. My own toes tingle with cold, despite being wrapped in wool.

I glance down at Liberty’s feet, ankles red and frost bitten. Thorne found her jogging on a road near her home, so she’s wearing tennis shoes and socks that hardly show.

“We should get you boots,” I comment, the first words spoken since leaving the Bower. In truth, no words are needed. This exercise was meant to assess the woman. It’s already done.

She doesn’t respond.

I continue forward, letting my fogged breath lead the way.

How long should I let this walk last?

“You know he’s going to fuck you, right?”