Page 56 of The Delta's Rogue
I breathe. In and out, one breath at a time.
I sent a mindlink to my pack. I don’t know if they heard it. They’ll likely figure it out, though, once I don’t return to camp. But I can’t be a sitting duck, waiting for them to realize what happened and come up with a plan to find me. I need to assess my situation and observe this group’s routines and procedures, see if I can find a flaw in their safeguards or an ally in their ranks.
The only way to do that is with a cool, clear, and level head.
The only way out is through.La única manera fuera es através.
The creaking of the crank attached to my chains breaks through my deep inner turmoil and pinballing thoughts. My heart pounds, and my hands shake as the crank engages. I scramble to a seated position, wiping at my tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes as quickly as I can before the chains are too tight for me to move my arms.
The door opens, and Nuncio slides in, flanked by Crooked Nose and Eye Patch. All three wear matching sneers, their eyes grazing my body lazily.
My instincts are to cover myself with my hands, but the chains attached to the wall prevent that. Even so, I yank on them, straining against their short leash.
All three males chuckle in a dark, harmonic chord.
“There she is. Our pretty little prize,” Nuncio preens.
If I wasn’t gagged, I’d spit at his feet and tell himvete a la mierda. Fuck off. Since I can do neither, I settle for a quiet growl.
Nuncio and Eye Patch stalk forward into the room while Crooked Nose stays behind, his left side snaked around the doorframe to operate the chains. Nuncio grabs my wrists with gloved hands and wrenches my arms behind my back, twisting unnecessarily hard, to clasp my wrists together. He secures my collar to a chain that extends down my spine to my wrists. The heavy metal swings as he disconnects the chains attaching me to the wall.
The links trailing from the collar tickle my spine. Burning cold pain teases my skin with each of their passes over my back, making me shiver and twitch. None of the touches are long enough to be truly painful. Each is like a minuscule shock of electricity. There, and gone just as quickly.
Nuncio yanks me to my feet, and I jerk against his hold, shooting him a glare. But I don’t fight too hard. I have to conserve my energy and can’t expend more than needed. I’m already weakened from the drugs and the silver.
Eye Patch kneels in front of me, hooking a chain between the cuffs on my ankles and releasing them from the chains on the wall. He leers at me from the floor, eye lingering on my underwear-covered pussy as if he can see through the fabric to the body part underneath.
The urge to kick him, to plant a foot right between his legs and shove as hard as I can, races through me. His grunt of pain as I smashed his dick and balls with my heel would give me sweet satisfaction. But that satisfaction would be short-lived, so I resist. The chain between my ankles prevents me from lifting my leg high enough to accomplish that anyway, and I promised myself I would behave. For now.
Eye Patch leans closer, and I shut my eyes and hold my breath, preparing myself for his lips against my pussy. But the sharp sound of a slap echoes in the room, and I peek through half-closed eyes to see him clutching at his cheek, a red handprint blossoming on his pale skin.
“Don’t touch her,” Nuncio snarls, as if he didn’t when they caught me. “The boss will have our heads if we touch the merchandise before it’s examined.”
A shudder runs through me at that word.Examined.I don’t know who will do it or how they’ll examine me, but I imagine it will be intrusive and unpleasant.
And who is their boss? The witch from the van? Or someone higher up, someone even more powerful? Nuncio seems to be the brains—the leader—between these three, but is there another above him? Someone he answers to?
Nuncio yanks on the chain stretched between the back of my neck and my wrists, tugging me towards the door. I stumble a little. My legs are wobbly from the shackles, the large amounts of wolfsbane they’ve dosed me with at least twice now, and my curled, stiff position on the uncomfortable cot as I cried. Eye Patch and Crooked Nose follow us,and I feel their eyes roaming my backside like clammy hands touching me in unwanted places.
At least my underwear covers my ass. It’s a small but powerful consolation.
Our walk through the building is silent, the white-tiled floor as cold as a frozen lake under my bare feet. We pass door after door after door, and yet we never see another soul. The silence is as bare as the stark white walls of the halls around us.
I count the gray doors like I counted the lighting fixtures, tracking every turn we take, flicking my eyes to the corners and the ceiling to detect hidden security cameras. Attempting an escape from within this building would be a foolish move, but the more I observe, the more information I can pass along to any ally I may find within their ranks, so they can pass it on to my pack.
Goddess, I hope there is someone. One ally is all I need.
We round one final corner and enter a large room, stopping at the end of a line of females in silver shackles, with two or three males flanking each of them. The females are all dressed similarly to me—bra and underwear and nothing else.
On the opposite wall are two doors, one in each corner, and between them is the witch I saw when I arrived. Her long hair is now straight instead of curled, and she wears heavy, dark eye makeup and deep purple lipstick, and a long, semi-sheer, metallic green gown. Her eyes land on me immediately.
I lower my gaze to the floor, goosebumps rising on my skin from the hungry way she stares at me. Nuncio drags me forward three steps and stops again, and I dare another glance around the room.
The witch has moved her focus to the young female next to her—a tiny, fragile slip of a thing. Her almost-black hair is slicked away from her face in a low ponytail, and she’s dressed in a one-shouldered, black, crushed velvet dress. Her expression is hollow and vacant, almost disinterested, but her skin is too pale and her soft blue eyes are filled with pain.
I watch from my peripheral vision as she examines a captive female at the front of the line, keeping my chin down. The witch from the van—the powerful, haughty, cruel one—removes the captive’s gag and asks her some questions.
I don’t hear her words or the answers from the female, but after a few moments, the younger witch—the fragile one—steps closer to her. Her hand tracesthe female’s lips, wraps around her neck, then it slides down her torso—gliding between her breasts and down her stomach—to her crotch, where it stops. She draws a shape with one finger, tracing the tip of it over the prisoner’s pussy through her underwear.
