Page 53 of The Vixen

“I want you to trust me again.”

Her hands press to my chest like she’s going to push me away, but she doesn’t turn her head when I graze her lips. Her eyes close as her mouth opens. “I’ve never trusted you.”

“Yes, you did. Before the other night, you did… Let me fix it. Please.” I cup her jaw as I kiss her with the softest of pressure, lips gently molding to hers.

She’s stiff.

Then she melts.

Then just as quickly, she rips away, her hand flying to shield her mouth.

“No.”

“It’s okay,” I coo, letting my eyelids be heavy. “I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Sawyer,no.”

“Luna, yes.”

“No!”

My eyes widen as I’m shoved backward with more force than I’d ever expect. Luna seethes in front of me, anger so potent the air quakes.

I raise my hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Get out.”

“Luna, I?—”

“I said…Get. Out.”

My jaw hangs loose, hands lifted as if she’s holding a gun. A second passes that’s too long. My thoughts move too slowly, too erratic to form a clear path forward—what to do, what to say.

I see my mistake clear as day: I pushed too hard, too fast.

I overwhelmed her.

Embarrassed her.

“Aiden!” Luna yells, though I know for certain he isn’t out there. He’s at home, with his wife. Celebrating something—kid’s birthday, full moon, whatever.

“Okay,” I finally say. My head bobs with a relenting nod. I slowly lower my hands and leave, flinching when Luna slams the door behind me.

My hands shake as I go back to my room. I lie down on the bed and stare at the ceiling, the Keepers on the lawn no longer relevant.

My head spins, first with ideas, then with dread. I can’t even bring myself to think about Liberty or the horror she’ll no doubt feel. Instead, my thoughts skip ahead. Then backward.

To Angel.

To the hatred in his eyes the last time we saw each other. To the pained cry that’ll rattle the birds as he learns what happened to his wife. And who was responsible.

You’re my brother, Sawyer,he said to me year three of undergrad. Drunk off cheap beer, lying on golf turf as we listened to the creak of a pair of swings not yet settled. Hands behind our heads. Eyes pointed at the cloudless sky, not quite as cluttered with stars as I like, but a decent view for Cambridge.

You’re the only family I have.

My throat swelled. I didn’t respond. He didn’t even know my real last name.

I almost told him, two days later back in our apartment with the temperamental oven and thrift store coffee maker. I opened my mouth, his back turned.