Page 77 of The Delta's Rogue
Amara’s eyes linger on my exhausted features as she meanders in the opposite direction, back down the line of females. “Today, we will finish preparing your appearance and begin preparing your demeanor. Our clientele expects a certain level of perfection from our females. They expect you to conduct yourself in a specific manner: stay attentive to their needs, follow their requests, and remain soft and compliant.”
She shoots a pointed look my way before scanning all the females. “When they tell you to do something, you should do it right away, with no hesitation. To prepare you for that, you will first learn to follow my orders and those of your attendant. And my command for you right now is a simple one, one you should all be able to follow without a problem.”
The train of her dress hisses like a slithering snake in tall grass with every step she takes, and her eyes sharpen like a predator’s when zeroing in on its prey. “Each of you will strip for me.”
It takes a momentfor Amara’s command to register in my mind.
I can’t have heard her correctly. She can’t possibly be asking us to undress for her as if our circumstances weren’t humiliating enough. As if Brenna’s invasion of our bodies and minds yesterday wasn’t traumatizing enough. As if the prospect of being auctioned off to “Doms” who will do Goddess only knows what to us isn’t terrifying enough.
“Each of you will strip for me,” she repeats, “so that I may assess your body. Don’t stress about the execution,” she adds, attempting to assuage our nonexistent concerns. “We will work on your presentation later, when you all are more comfortable and relaxed.”
She smiles at each of us as if what she said was normal and not a request for us to degrade ourselves.
Several of the females exchange glances, debating if they should listen to her or not, and others lower their chins to their chests, avoiding her gaze. One has tears streaming from her eyes, her shoulders shaking in silent sobs, and I wish I could comfort her. I wish I wasn’t facing the same fate as her, that I could reassure her that she—that everything—will be fine.
But I can’t promise her that. I can’t even promise myself that.
“I know it’s scary to undress yourself in front of people you don’t know.” Amara’s voice takes on that cringe-inducing, marshmallow tone again as she lifts the crying girl’s chin and wipes the tears from her cheeks. “I promise you this is a safe place. We want to help you be the perfect prize for your future owner, but we can’t do that if we don’t knowwhat we’re working with.” She smooths the girl’s hair away from her face and blinks down at her. “Can you undress for me, sweetheart? Can you show me your beautiful body?”
No lo hagas. I mentally urge her not to do it, to not give Amara the satisfaction.No le des la satisfacción.
My eyes bore into the side of her head, begging her to not give in, to resist, even though I know what will happen if she doesn’t cooperate. The witch standing behind her has her hand wrapped around a vial like Brenna’s, eyes locked on her charge as she waits to see if she’ll follow Amara’s wishes.
The girl’s shoulders shake harder, lip quivering, but she nods at Amara, the movement frantic and emphatic. Amara drops her hand from her face, and the crying female unclasps the bustier top she’s dressed in, letting it fall to the floor by her feet, before she removes the matching lace shorts.
Both items lie discarded on the floor as Amara places her hand on her shoulder. The girl flinches but doesn’t move away from Amara.
“Thank you, sweetheart. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Amara says.
She doesn’t respond to Amara. Not verbally, at least. She clenches her jaw to hold in her sobs.
Amara circles her. Her gaze turns critical as she examines the naked female, ignoring the distressed noises she makes. “She has lovely legs.” Her eyes linger on them. “But that tattoo on her ankle needs to go. And her…”
The rest of her words fade, hidden by the thundering of my heart and the panicked scream building in my mind, like a whistling teakettle.
“That tattoo needs to go.”
Those words repeat in my brain like a broken record.
“That tattoo needs to go.”
I try to breathe, but my lungs no longer work.
I picture the tattoos on my ribs, the lines of words inked into my skin. The words Sebastian murmured to me on our last night together as we made our vow to each other. I’ve traced over those words more times than I care to admit. I have the urge to do so now, to do it one final time, but I refuse.
I refuse to be their victim, their doll, their plaything. I refuse to let them control me in this way.
They took my choker from me, but I’ll be damned if they take his words from me too.
My eyes swivel towards the door and then towards Brenna, who stands behind my right shoulder. Amara is examining the first girl, giving feedback to the witch with her, and the other girls around me begin to undress too.
I have control of my body at the moment, but I know I won’t get far if I run. I learned that the hard way yesterday. There are too many witches in this room. Brenna has my blood, and she’s already shown she has no qualms about using it.
My lungs continue to fail me as I shoot daggers at Brenna. I’m hyperventilating as I wait for her to notice me. The screaming echoing in my mind morphs into an imaginary howl—an echo of the howls in my mind the night I left Sebastian behind.
Brenna’s gaze shifts towards me for a split second. She double-takes and stares at my panicked and desperate expression, her brows furrowing.
Por favor, I mouth, begging. My fingers splay wide as I resist clasping them together in front of my chest, knowing the movement will draw Amara’s attention.
