Page 82 of The Delta's Rogue
My fingers twitch, and my heart races. Honeybees swarm in my stomach, and a knot ties itself in my throat.
“¿Cómo sé que puedo confiar en ti?” I ask through my teeth, my hands curling into fists. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Look down.”
I do as I’m told—for once—and there on my ribs are Sebastian’s words, still inked into my skin.
I cover my mouth with my free hand as my fingers splay across my abdomen. They trace over the scrawling, swirling handwriting, and I hear his voice as clearly as if he was right next to me, holding me and murmuring the words to me.
I don’t question if they’re real. She wouldn’t risk everything to bring me food and show me the tattoos if they were only another illusion.
She didn’t take them from me.
Tears of relief and gratitude pour from my eyes. Sob after sob rattles my chest.
In the grand scheme of things, the existence of the tattoo matters not, but this small gift Brenna’s bestowed upon me when everything seems bleak means more than I can put into words. It’s the hope I needed, the last shimmering ray of light to reach the darkness before it consumes me. It gives me something to cling to, to keep me from breaking into millions of unmendable pieces.
“Gracias,” I say between my sobs, my words choked and my voice weak and trembling. “Oh Goddess, thank you so much.”
She gives me a half-smile. “Let’s get you dressed.”
Brenna drapes the robe over her arm and reaches for me. I don’t hesitate this time. I slip my hand into hers and let her tug me to the edge of the bed until I’m sitting with my legs over the side. She wraps the robe around my shoulders. I slip my arms into the sleeves and gather it around my waist to stand.
Unlike the robe she dressed me in the first night, this robe is floor length and has a button on the hip to hold it closed. The fabric, while cool to the touch, is sturdy and opaque, providing me with cover and a bit of warmth against the freezing air flowing through the vents. My fingers—quivering from the cold, my fatigue, and the overwhelming surge of emotions pulsing through me—fumble with the button.
I walk towards the cart she brought in with her, but my knees give out before I can take one step. Brenna grabs me as I fall, catching me under my arms. My teeth knock together, chattering from the tremors wreaking havoc on me. I try to keep myself upright, to keep my feet under me, but my body is too heavy. My strength is gone.
“You need to eat,” Brenna whispers, gripping me tighter. “You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t.”
“If I die, they can’t auction me off.”
“If you die, he can’t keep his promise.”
Her words are a slap in the face, and a reminder that she knows more about me than she lets on. They’re the harsh truth: I will die if I continue this way. A body can only survive for so long without food. That’s true even for shifters. If I die, there’s nothing for Sebastian to find. If I’m sold, there is still a chance—a slim one, but a chance.
I blink at her. “You’re right,” I admit.
She lifts me back onto the mattress. “Stay here.” She points at the pillows. “I’ll bring you your food.”
I listen to her again and scoot myself towards the head of the bed, propping myself up. “¿Qué es?” I ask. “What is it?”
She grabs a mug from the lower shelf of the rolling cart and lifts the cover off the tray on the top. “Soup.” She pours it from the bowl into the mug. “It’s just chicken broth and rice. I didn’t want to give you something too rich or too heavy.” She crosses back to me and hands me the mug. “Don’t wolf it down, or you’ll make yourself sick.”
My lips twitch in a silent laugh at her attempt at a pun as I lift the mug to my face. I inhale the scent of the soup. With my senses muted by the wolfsbane and the silver, it isn’t as powerful as it would be, but it’s comforting, and the steam warms my face.
I sip at it, going slowly like Brenna said, enjoying the savory broth. It heats me from the inside, soothing my aching muscles and my pained soul. It awakens memories of my dad bringing me soup as a child, when the loneliness I endured was too overwhelming for my tiny heart—a gesture that holds more meaning to me now than it did then, when I was too young to understand and appreciate the intentions behind it. Then, it was just a father bringing his daughter a homemade meal. Now, I see it for what it was—understanding and solidarity.
Maybe, one day, I can thank him for it. Maybe, one day, I can return the favor.
Brenna grabs the blanket from the foot of the bed and tucks it around me, granting me another luxury, as I eat the food I’m not allowed to have.
I frown at her. “¿Por qué me estás ayudando?”
Her hands freeze for a split second, and then she continues smoothing the blanket out over my legs.
“Why did you lie about my virginity, take that blow from Nuncio, and pretend to remove my tattoos? Why are you helping me?”
“You’re not the only one who is trapped.”
