Page 86 of The Delta's Rogue
Pretending may be what breaks me.
La única manera fuera es através,I remind myself. The only way out is through.
I take one step forward. A tear falls down my cheek. My lip quivers, and I shake violently, shoulders heaving. Another step, and my hands curl into fists, my jaw clenching and teeth grinding together.
La única manera fuera es através.
My entire body fights me. My pride, my rebellious and wild nature, my heart—all of it begs me to reconsider. To stop, turn around, and hold my ground in the corner.
I take a third step, and every eye is on me, tracking my journey towards the tables, waiting to see what I’m about to do. A murmur swirls through the room like the rustling of the sand across the shore. I hear none of the words, but I sense their wariness and curiosity.
Tears stream unfettered from my eyes as I finish my journey, stopping at the only empty table in the room.
Amara strolls to the other side. Excitement gleams in her eyes, like a child on their birthday, and she grips the back of a chair, leaning forward in anticipation as she watches me.
I close my eyes and squeeze my fists tighter. Regret, remorse, shame, and resolve all fill me, fighting for dominance in my soul, as I send an apology through the void. Then I lower myself to my knees, avoiding Amara’s gaze as I wait for her reaction.
The only way out is through.
The wait is awful. She drags it out, taking her time to say or do anything, letting me marinate in my inferiority.
I maintain my pose—back arched, breasts pushed forward, knees apart, and chin high.
But I’m dying inside. Another piece of me shrivels and deteriorates, drying up and withering into dust.
It’s all wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Everything they do is twisted and sick, a distorted version of what a true Dominant and submissive dynamic should be, and it taints my memories of my days with Sebastian.
The tears don’t stop. They’re a constant stream of liquid, a river of pain and fear flooding the plains of my face.
There’s no point in stopping them. Amara doesn’t care if I cry. She only cares if I submit. And any male who buys girls from them won’t care either. Some may get off on the fear, the panic, and the tears.
Amara rounds the table. Smugness oozes from her as she squats in front of me to cup my cheeks in her hands.
“Oh, sweet thing,” she whispers, attempting to soothe me with her voice, her expression, and her gentle caresses of my face. “There’s no need to cry. Your body is a gift, a treasure. It’s meant to be shared with the world.”
Brenna stands behind her, and I hold her gaze. Liquid fills her eyes as well—a muted echo of the tears falling from mine—but there is hope there too.
I reach for it, wrapping my spirit around the tiny splinter of optimism, clinging to it like a life preserver.
“I’m so proud of you for making the right choice,” Amara praises in her twisted way. “You’re going to feel so much better now.”
I inhale through my nose, keeping the snot from joining the tears on my face.
I hate how weak I am in this moment, but I hate Amara more.
I lower my chin as she releases my face so she can’t see the fire burning behind the brokenness in my eyes, and I vow then and there to destroy her. I’ll humiliate her the way she’s humiliated me and so many before me. I’ll drag it out until she’s begging me to stop, and then I’ll continue, doubling down on my emotional and physical torture before I end her life.
A plate is set on the table in front of the chair I kneel next to, and Amara nods at it. “You may feed her now,” she says to Brenna. “Feed her and take her back to her room. You may give her clothes and blankets, but she still needs to earn her freedom from the chains on her bed.”
Brenna slides into the chair. She cuts into the meat, slicing it into bite-sized pieces and spearing them with her fork, her remorse-filled blue eyes flicking towards me as she prepares to feed me.
I take deep breaths, calming the stormy emotions filling me so I can chew the sparse meal they’ve allowed me to eat.
Amara circles the table, eyes shining with cruel delight, as Brenna lowers the food to my lips. I shut out everything around me, shut out my fear, anguish, and regret. I push down the hope that Brenna’s plan will work, and hide my intense love for Sebastian and my wild determination, until I’m nothing more than a shell. A husk. A pretty doll—una linda muñeca—for them to manipulate, use, and sell.
I empty myself of it all, bracing for the longest chess game of my life.
I lie on thebed in my prison disguised as a room, curled into a ball, with the heavy blankets tucked around me. The room is warm, and I wear a beautiful fur-lined silk robe—heavier and warmer than the silk robe Brenna brought me ages ago—but there is a bone-aching chill that never diminishes. It radiates from within me, from the cracks and the shattered pieces of my soul that grow with each passing day, with each act of submission, with each moment I pretend to be exactly what they want me to be.
