Page 79 of The Vixen

I stare down at the table, nails scraping my thighs.

It’s just a lesson.

Do not react.

But I can sense Sawyer’s eyes every time they hit me, my back weighted by Father’s arm. Never have I wanted so badly to rip away.

Father scoots closer and forces my chin up, fingers digging craters into my cheek. His beard tickles the hinge of my jaw ashot breath blasts my ear. “Do you see now why we don’t initiate women? This is what the outside world produces. This is what we’ll become if you get your way.”

Weak.

That’s the word he means, but the word that tries to cement into my brain iscruel.

I close my eyes, but the images that surface are worse than those of the room. Liberty’s gagging makes my stomach clench. Aubry’s crying shallows my breath.

A thought so harsh my shoulders rise to my ears:it will only get worse.

Something in me cracks.

“You’re right, Father.” My voice wavers and cheeks contract beneath his hand as I work my jaw.

I chuck my napkin on my plate before shoving from the table, silverware rattling as my palms slap wood. If I were smart, I’d keep my voice low, my face neutral. Fractures in leadership can quickly widen under pressure—and my enemy knows how to press.

Sawyer's eyes warm the side of my face as I glare down at Father. It’d be easy to say I lose control.

But I’ve never lost control in my life.

“This is our present under my influence.” I flick my wrist at the chaos. “Imagine the future under yours.”

Father’s eyes widen as his upper lip twitches. No more doting. No more lies.

I storm from the room. Aiden watches as I pass—smart enough not to follow.

Once I’m outside, I brace myself against the concrete railing and draw cold air through my lungs. I face the ground as if sick. Wrap one arm around my stomach. Fresh air makes it no easier to breathe.

When the door opens, I expect Father. Possibly Thorne.

I’m wrong.

Sawyer’s presence thaws the ice in my cheeks. My teeth unclench while I stare at a patch of stubborn snow.

I don’t know if it’s his scent, his movement, or the gentle shut of the door.

But I know it’s him before I turn around.

CHAPTER 20

SAWYER

Luna’s chin lifts as she turns around, porcelain cheeks blushing in the cold.

The soft beam of the moon casts down from the clear night sky and highlights her hair with streaks of silver. When a breeze lifts a strand, it’s as if she shimmers, and I get it—why Thorne chose her name. Not lazy. Felicitous.

For a moment, I just stare.

Then my stomach rolls.

Luna’s mouth opens, but whatever she has on her tongue cuts off as I jam a finger against my lips. I hurry to the railing, palms braced against cold concrete as I empty my stomach, my body convulsing so sharply that after a minute my back aches. It feels as though it’ll never end.