Page 117 of The Delta's Rogue
My gaze lifts and on a small table by the door is the vial of blood, left there by the blonde witch or Amara.
Everything in me warns me that it’s a trap, a test. They want me to fight against this male. They want him to punish me. There are likely strategically placed cameras all over this room, so every moment of my humiliation is recorded and displayed to them for their entertainment.
But I don’t care.
Hurried, dominant, and desperate footsteps thunder in the hallway, heading towards my room, and I grab the shoe from my foot, turning it so the sharp, seven-inch stiletto points towards the door.
It may result in my punishment. It may result in this male wielding his power over me in an even harsher manner and sooner than he may have originally planned, but I won’t go down without a fight. I won’t go down without one last stand.
The lock spins, the doorknob rattles, and I charge forward, shoe in hand, ready to stab my stiletto heel into the eyeball of the bastard who thinks he can buy my submission.
Sarina flies towards me,a shoe in her hand with the stiletto heel pointing towards my face. Rage, desperation, and resignation fill her eyes as she makes this last attempt to assert her will, knowing it will cause more pain for her.
I barely have time to react to her hysterical assault. I turn my head to the left a split second before the shoe meets my face.
The thin end of the pointy heel scrapes down my temple and cheek. Fear-induced adrenaline fuels Sarina’s attack, giving her enough energy and strength to pierce my skin and draw blood. Hissing, I grit my teeth against the pain, tensing and readying myself for her second strike.
She snarls, drives her knee up between my legs towards my crotch, and winds herself up for a second blow with her shoe. My thighs clench together before she can hit me in my groin, but the heel is already descending towards my face once again.
On instinct, I grab her wrist when the shoe is within an inch of my face. I grip it tight, ignoring the burn of silver against my palm from the cuff around her arm and the fireworks of the mate bond from where my skin meets hers.
The shoe tumbles to the floor.
Her eyes clench shut, and she whips her head violently from side to side. “Don’t touch me!” She thrashes around, her other fist smashing against my chest in agitated repetition. “Let me go! Please let me go!”
Her shoulders heave, and her voice cracks as she begs me not to touch her. Her scent—her sweet, seductive, perfect scent—fills my lungs with each breath I take. Strongerthan the hints of it I caught on Brenna and more intoxicating than it’s ever been, it pinwheels around me with increasing insistence as her resistance increases in its aggressiveness.
My lycan—already agitated from the way they displayed her during the auction, and from my refusal to give him free reign to tear out the throat of anyone who even blinked in Sarina’s direction while she was in such a vulnerable state—pushes further to the forefront of my mind, drawn forward by the marvelous scent. His instincts meld with mine, and without thinking it through, my hand tightens around her wrist.
I can’t let her go. She’s my everything. I’ve spent too long without her to even let her out of my sight.
She screams as my grip tightens. The shrill, hysterical noise torpedoes through my body, straight into my heart. The scream morphs into broken sobs interspersed with agitated, unintelligible pleading. Her palm presses into my chest, using my body as leverage as she fights against my hold on her arm.
“Lemon,” she gasps between her cries. It’s the only word discernible amongst the garbled utterings spewing from her mouth. “Lemon. Lemon!”
My reaction is immediate. I release her from my grasp, keeping my raised hands close to my shoulders as I step away from her.
In all the time we spent playing together, in all the time I spent teaching her about the relationship between a Dom and his sub, she never once uttered her safe word. Now, in this Goddess-forsaken place, her gut instinct is to use it.
Sarina doesn’t seem to realize that the male in this room—the male who “bought” her—is me, but she clings to the only scrap of hope she has left, to the lifeline of safety embedded within that word we agreed upon together, even though she knows it won’t mean anything to anyone other than me.
She tugs herself away from me with renewed energy at the exact moment I release her. The force of her frenzied movements sends her stumbling backwards. She trips over the dropped shoe, arms flailing, and falls to the floor.
“Lemon.” Sarina repeats the word, scooting backwards on the floor to put as much distance between us as she can. Her hand curls around the other shoe, and she waves it like a weapon, a sword. “Lemon,” she murmurs again, hugging her knees while still defending herself with the makeshift weapon.
Tears, barely visible behind the strands of hair draped across her face, stream down her cheeks. The shoe she’s holding shakes like the last leaf left on a tree in autumn. Sarina holds her legs in a vise grip, body tense as she waits for her master to retaliate for her rebellious attack.
My lycan wrestles me for control. Our mate is terrified and crying on the floor, and we should be comforting her, reassuring her. We should be holding her in our arms and whispering to her that she’s safe now.
My soul aches with the effort of my restraint. I want to scoop Sarina against my chest and smooth her hair away from her face, to embrace her and soothe her pain and fear away. I want to tell her I’m proud of her for defending herself one last time.
She’s so small and fragile and broken. She needs my comfort and my strength. But I refuse to touch her while she’s in this state and doesn’t realize who I am. I refuse to touch her until I have her permission.
So I stand there, frozen, blood dripping down my face as her body shakes with sobs and violent shivering tremors. I wait for her to realize I will not punish or hurt her.
A raging maelstrom of emotions stampedes through me. Sarina’s are indiscernible from my own, heightened by the newness of the connection from our mate bond.
Fear and panic spiral together, forming a heavy chain rivaling the strength of the bond between us. The chain wraps around her fragile soul, catching on the fraying, broken edges of her heart. It weighs her down, holding her captive like the shackles on her limbs and the collar on her throat. Around and around it twists, forming an impenetrable shield of self-preservation and survival. A shield to hide away—to staunch the best parts of herself—so she can convince them she’s everything they want her to be, until she’s forgotten who she truly is.
