Page 92 of The Vixen

“Black bears?” When my face screws up, he smirks.

“It sounds made up, but it’s an actual thing people do. I was scaredshitless. He kept telling me these stories of him with my grandfather when he was a kid and the first bear he shot, how it got so close he could smell its breath.” He mock shudders. “I’m pretty sure that was bullshit, but my nine-year-old self bought it. Every single snap of a twig would make me piss my pants.”

“Did you find a bear?” I ensure my voice stays neutral. The idea of killing just to kill is revolting, but when Sawyer speaks… I don’t know. I can’t help but listen. I can’t help but want more.

“No, thank fuck. No, my old man was such a drunk, I don’t think he even knew where we were half the time. He kept telling me to count my steps in case we couldn’t find our way back to the truck.‘Pay attention, boy. Count your steps up the mountain. If we get lost out here, that’s it. We’re dead.’”

My head hangs low as I listen, and I peek at Sawyer from beneath my lashes. I can’t tell what he’s thinking from his voice alone, but I know it can’t be as light-hearted as he sounds. Not when it obviously traumatized him.

Count your steps. This is the memory that compulsion comes from.

“That must’ve been terrifying,” I say, my voice so soft it doesn’t sound like mine.

“No.” Sawyer shakes his head. “I meanyes, but no. What was terrifying was when on the fifth day, he walked into a snare. He told me to run to the truck and get help, so I did. It wasn’t until probably ten hours later, in the middle of the night, that I realized I was never going to find that truck. Fuckin’ woods became a maze.”

As the treeline approaches, I hug my stomach. “But you found your father?”

“No. Another hunter did… They cut him loose. He was fine… It took three excruciatingly long nights before a search party was able to find me, though. I spent most of it making the situation worse by hiking up the mountain in search of my dad.”

We step from the treeline, the Nurturers’ compound in our sights. The treehouse he took me to weeks ago is barely visible in the distance, and as we walk in that direction, I question if this was my intention all along—conscious or not.

Is it crazy to think that showing him the good of my home would make him less adept to destroy it? Is it crazy to remind him of things he never believed to begin with?

Yes. It is.

But I don’t regret it. Somehow, deep inside, I know if he gave my home a chance, he would see the good. He could be happy here.

“So,” he sighs. “Not a hunter. But that’s the last time I’ve been lost… If you want to hide the exits or cover up my markedpaths, don’t bother. They’re engrained. If you put a blindfold over my eyes, I could walk to the front gate of the compound without missing a step.”

I nod slowly. “I don’t doubt it.”

A subtle breeze glides thin strands of hair into my eyes and chills my face, reminding me of the cold. I swipe the flyaways behind my ears and try to glimpse Sawyer’s hands. They’re stuffed into his pockets, his posture rigid but not shaking.

I’ve kept him out long enough. We should head back.

But as we grow closer toward the treehouse, I find myself wanting to veer off the concrete path. It’s ridiculous because it’s only a platform made of old wood, but it feels significant. Like if I could just get him there, I could have that moment back.

“I’m sorry your father was a drunk.” My elbow brushes his. My voice… It doesn’t sound sincere. Nor compassionate. I don’t know why.

“Thank you. I appreciate that… It isn’t easy fearing the person raising you. Obviously, I’m a little fucked up from it. I havecompulsions. Difficulty trusting others, difficulty maintaining relationships… You should count yourself lucky you can’t relate to any of that.”

My head turns his way only to find him looking at his feet. There’s no question about the purpose of his words, but he doesn’t say them sarcastically. Or at least not obnoxiously so.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I point my feet away from the treehouse. Sawyer matches every quickening step.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” I ask, my tone sharp.

“Not even close.”

“You want me to say that my father is evil. That he’s messed me up. That he…” I close my eyes and curl my fingers into my palms. “That mycompulsionsare because of him. I’m not stupid, Sawyer. I’m not going to melt because you told me some made-up story. You’re so full of lies, you?—”

I gasp as he grabs hold of my hand and stops abruptly, ripping me toward him. He presses himself close, his face unreadable, his grip on my hand somehow both firm and careful.

“It was true. You don’t have to believe me. You don’t have to make connections, but… It was true.”

When his hand slips from mine, I latch back onto it without thinking.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he whispers with the breeze. “You wantreal?”