Page 130 of The Delta's Rogue
I smirk and extend a claw. “Do you want me to cut it for you?”
She nods and stands straighter.
“How short do you want it?”
“Here.” She points to her collarbone. “Is that okay?” Her confidence falters, and her heart flutters.
“It’s your hair,cariño. You can have it as short or as long as you want.”
I drag my fist down the length of it, loosening my grip just enough so the strands lie flat against her back, until my hand is right below hers. Then I slice my extended claw across her hair. The shorter strands sway from the momentum, and she watches them with fascination.
She combs her fingers through the new hairstyle and, as she does, a weight lifts from her shoulders.
“We can have someone clean up the ends later.” I toss the remnants of her long locks into the trash can.
“Do you like it?” She faces me, her hands still playing with her hair, her expression relaxed for the first time this evening.
The shorter style swings and bounces. Her hair was never this short when I first met her, but it brings back memories of our time together four years ago. It reminds me of the spunky, playful, badass rogue I fell in love with.
I tuck a stray strand behind her ear with a smile. Then I grip her chin so her eyes stay on mine as I answer her question, ensuring she doesn’t revert to the timid, submissive mindset they instilled in her. “It’s perfect. I love it.”
She lets out a sigh of relief as she thanks me.“Gracias, mi vida.”
“While you’re in the shower, I’ll stay right here.” I step back and cross my arms. “I won’t watch. I’ll turn my back and close my eyes, and if you need me for anything, I will help. But I can’t leave you in this room alone. My lycan won’t let me.”
A hint of a smirk twitches her lips and lights up her eyes. “Only your lycan?”
I chuckle and shake my head, reveling in the brief laughter dancing across her face. It’s only a glimpse of her former, fiery self, but I savor it. I’ll take whatever I can get.
“Just get in the shower,cariño.” To punctuate my words, I spin and face the mirror. I close my eyes and lean my palms on the counter.
The soft rustle of fabric sliding over a body and landing on the gray-tiled floor tells me she’s taken my shirt off. I wait, straining my ears to listen for the lingerie to follow, for her to cross the room to the shower, open the glass door, and step inside.
But that doesn’t happen.
Instead, her heart races. It climbs steadily until it reaches a sprinting pace. Her breath matches the rhythm, leaving her lungs in short, frantic exhales, tinted with whimpers and shaky cries.
“I can’t get it off!” Her words ring through the bathroom, echoing off the clean, smooth surfaces. “I can’t take it off!”
Her choked, pained voice yanks me away from the counter and towards her. Her hands claw at the bra and underwear I dressed her in, but the garments remain on her. She tugs at the fabric and scratches her nails across her skin, leaving pink marks everywhere. Blood beads within several of the scratches, and I lunge for her, grabbing her wrists so she stops hurting herself.
Then I remember. It’s enchanted lingerie. Lingerie she could only put on if I let her or dressed her in it myself. I’m guessing the same is true for removing it.
“Take it off me!” Her voice pierces my eardrums and my heart. “Please,Sebastián! Take it off, take it off, take it off!”
Her body tenses and strains as she repeats the words over and over. She writhes and flails. Her desperate, agitated sobs crack her voice. Each cry is louder than the previous. Each sob punches me harder in the gut. Her screams tear through the room until her words are unintelligible, animalistic noises.
I press her against my body. Her screaming sobs continue, body convulsing uncontrollably with each one. I scoop her up, cross to the shower in hurried strides, and stand under the flow of water while fully dressed, with her cradled to my chest.
Tears stream down both of our faces. They mix with the shower water. While loud, heaving, unending sobs accompany Sarina’s tears, my tears are silent. They remain silent as I crouch to my knees and set Sarina on the shower floor. They stay silent as I carefully slice the lingerie from her body with a single claw and kick it aside into a pile in the corner. No sounds leave me while I tip her head back to soak her hair and as I massage shampoo into her scalp and through the now shorter ends of her dark locks.
I cry without noise as I bathe her, letting the water hide my tears. I cry for my mate, for the time stolen from us, for the trauma inflicted on her that will leave invisible scars that may never fade.
Sarina cries too. She shakes with a violent ferocity as I wash her body. Her sobs grow quiet, but her tears flow freely.
My soaked suit weighs me down—a mirror of the guilt weighing on my soul—as I touch her. I know it’s so she can feel clean again, but it seems like an invasion of her privacy and a violation of her trust.
The water runs clear, no dirt or suds in sight. I run my hand through my soaked hair, tipping my head up to the ceiling. Sarina leans against me, curled on the shower floor between my legs.
