Page 69 of The Delta's Rogue
Our eyes meet.
My nostrils flare, and my jaw ticks. I can’t read her. I can’t tell if she actually thinks I’m stupid enough to do any of what she implied I was planning or if it was a legitimate warning, a bit of insight into their operations.
“Do I get to bathe myself at least?” I ask, trying—and failing—to keep the sass out of my tone.
She drops her gaze to the floor. “You do not. They want you to get used to…submitting to others.”
“How will they know if I do it myself?”
Her eyes flick behind me, up and into the corners of the bathroom. “There are cameras.”
Of course there are.
Brenna pulls her lips into her mouth and folds her hands in front of her stomach. I follow the movement, tracking the glass with my blood in it.
“I will allow you to undress yourself,” she says, “but that’s the one freedom you’ll be allowed this evening.”
I don’t respond. I stand frozen in the bathroom, locked in a staring contest with this confusing witch. The tension between us grows and thickens as she waits for me to undress, and I lift my chin, my stubbornness setting in—the stubbornness that cost me many desserts as a child, the stubbornness I loved to use against Sebastian to egg him on and get him to cave to my wants and whims.
Brenna’s hand tightens on the vial, and her eyes turn pleading. “Please, Anaís. I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispers, her lips almost unmoving.
I swallow, pushing down my gut reaction to her appeal—“you already have”—and lift my shaking hands to the front clasp of my bra. It falls open, and I shrug it off my arms before removing my underwear until I stand naked on the opposite side of the tub from Brenna.
My lip quivers, but I hold back the shiver of disgust. Nudity is common for shifters—our clothing rips if we shift while wearing it—but this is different. It’s skin-crawling and nauseatingly cruel.
Liquid fills my eyes as I step into the tub and sink into the scalding hot water, my hands clutching the edge as tightly as they can. I embrace the heat, letting it take over my senses and give me something else to focus on.
Tears fall from my shut lashes, streaking down my cheeks, and I withdraw into myself, feeling only the water turning my skin red and raw, and the pit in my stomach as Brenna bathes me. I ignore her hands on my body and in my hair, pretending it’s not happening. I completely dissociate as she rinses the soap.
I’m someone and somewhere else. There is no hot water running over my body and down from the crown of my head. There is no bathtub. I’m not a captive of a sex trafficking ring. I’m not being prepared so they can sell me off to the highest bidder.
No. I’m withhim.
His arms are around me. “I’ve got you,” he whispers. His deep voice resonates in my soul as he wraps me in safety and warmth, his body like a weighted blanket as he covers me with love and showers me with affection.
I hardly notice as Brenna asks me to stand. I respond even in my dissociated state, rising to my feet. She takes my hand in hers, guides me out of the tub, and dries me off with a thick white towel. She grabs a sheer, flimsy, lacy red robe from a rack near the tub and helps me into it. I grasp the edges of it like a shield as I wrap it around myself, as if the translucent fabric will block my nudity underneath from prying eyes, as if Brenna didn’t just bathe me like she would a newborn.
There is no sash or clasp to close the robe, so I hug it to me as Brenna takes my elbow and walks us to the vanity, setting me on the cushioned seat. I try to keep my gaze on the smooth surface, but my eyes snag on my reflection in the mirror, and I can’t bringmyself to look away.
Bloodshot eyes, haunted and glassy, stare back at me. Tears stain my cheeks, and dark circles have formed under my eyes. The red robe covers less of me than I thought, the lace only on the edges of the garment, leaving my naked body completely visible through the gauzy fabric.
I flinch away as Brenna lifts a brush to my hair. The movement catches me by surprise. My heart pounds. I dig my fingers into the edge of the seat and breathe through the panic as she glides it from the roots to the ends of my hair. Her hand rests on top of the bristles as it descends, her magic working in tandem with the brush and smoothing out the strands, leaving them shining, straight, and dry.
“That male from your memories—who is he?” she asks as she styles my hair.
He’s my everything. My life.Mi vida.
I lift my hands from the seat and fidget with the ends of the robe’s long sleeves instead of answering her.
She switches tactics and tries again. “When was the last time you saw him?”
I know what she’s doing. She’s using my memories to find out if I’ll be missed, to see if anyone will search for me. I doubt she’d find him from the snippets she saw in my memories, but I can’t take that risk. I have to make her think he’s out of my life completely.
I have to protect him.
“Four years ago. I was nineteen when I said goodbye to him.”
It’s not a lie. He said he would find me. I’m sure he’s been searching for me during our years apart. But he won’t know I’m gone, that I’ve been taken.
