Page 68 of The Delta's Rogue
It’s gorgeous and opulent—a room that belongs in a luxury hotel or a mansion, not in the headquarters of a sex trafficking ring.
The door behind me shuts with a snap and the twisting of a bolt, and I sense Brenna dropping her control of my body. The noises jar me from my perusal of the room, and with my newfound freedom of movement, I spin to watch the locks slide into place on their own, visible through the small space between the door and the frame. There are no knobs or bolts on the door to manipulate them, only a thumb pad that matches the one on the other side of the wall.
I’m trapped in here, with a witch who may or may not be an ally.
The reality and the gravity of my situation set in. This is what I wanted: to be kept here instead of sent to Nuncio’s club or one like it. A club owned by a “Dom”, where the girls owned by him are whored out night after night and the guests are allowed to do whatever they want to them—provided they can afford it.
Yes, this is what I wanted. To be tucked away, hidden and protected from the depravity of one of those places. From someone other thanhimtouching me, controlling me, playing with me… The thought alone has my skin crawling and my stomach boiling with bile.
I couldn’t survive that. It would devastate me, break me.
Puede matarme.It would kill me.
But now that I’m here, tucked away like I wanted, I’m not sure it’s any better. I’m safe from disgusting males who use and abuse females, but I’m in danger here too.
I don’t know where I am or how anyone will find me. I don’t know what I’ll face in the coming days, what their “preparations” and “training” will entail.
I can guess, but I won’t know for sure until I’m faced with it.
The panic claws at my throat again, threatening to make a reappearance. It swells and writhes, resisting me as I shove it down. Water fills my eyes, throat tightening, and I slowly face forward again with shaking hands.
“Come with me,” Brenna murmurs, striding straight ahead towards the ensuite bathroom.
I hesitate for a moment. I consider rebelling.
My eyes linger on the vial clutched in her hand, and those thoughts of rebellion dissipate. The exhaustion I feel is bone deep, and the pain from her controlling me was unlike any I’ve experienced before. There is only so much I can take. I have limited strength available to fight it off and heal my strained body in the aftermath.
I trudge after her. My instincts scream at me, thrashing at the wrongness of my submission to her in this moment and urging me to fight back.
Ese no soy yo.
This isn’t me,my instincts say.I don’t give up. I don’t give in. I don’t submit to anyone buthim.
There’s no fight in me, though.
Brenna stands next to the large tub. Steam rises from within, filling the room along with the wafting scents of perfumed soaps or oils she’s placed within the water.
I stop on the opposite side from her, staring into the water as the bubbles swirl and rise. I sense her eyes on me. They’re sharp but not cold—not like Amara’s.
Amara’s gaze is cruel. Brenna’s gaze is exposing, like she can see through my mask to all the secrets buried deep within me even without touching my body and invading my memories.
Without a word, she rounds the tub and stands behind me, hands on the chain holding my arms together. She mutters quietly in Latin. The words are too soft and spoken too quickly for me to make them out.
Not that it would matter. I have no magic. Even if I did, I suspect they have precautions in place to prevent those they’ve captured from removing their own shackles.
The chain drops to the floor, rattling harshly. The sound grates in my ears, even without access to my enhanced hearing, and I wince.
She kneels and repeats the same thing on my ankles, freeing them from the chain suspended between them. I roll my shoulders and stretch my arms in front of me, relieving the aching tension from holding them in the same position for so long.
The silver cuffs stay, though, as does the collar, but I have free movement of my limbs. It’s a modest comfort, but it’s better than nothing.
Brenna rises to her feet, gaze wary as she watches me massage my wrists. My eyes dart around the bathroom, searching and analyzing, but her voice draws my focus.
“The door will only open for me or Amara, and the scanner can tell if we place our thumb on it willingly or not. If I’m not in my room in two hours, Amara will come check on me to make sure you didn’t attack me.” She says each sentence clinically, like she’s reading the stats off of a chart in a hospital.
“And you have my blood,” I point out, nodding my chin at the vial clutched in her fist.
“And I have your blood.”
