Page 75 of The Delta's Rogue
“I have clothing for you.” Brenna draws my attention to the garment bag she carries with her.
“I doubt it’s any warmer than the ‘robe’ you dressed me in last night,” I snap, my upper lip curling with my words. “It’s so thin it would probably dissolve in water.”
Her lip twitches as if she wants to laugh, but then she’s serious again, and I’m sure I imagined it. “It will cover you more, although not by much. But if you get out of bed and let me dress you willingly, I’ll make sure you stay warm while I prepare you.”
Another wave of nausea floods over me at her words. “Prepare you”. Like I’m a piece of meat. “Dress you”. Like I’m a doll.
I suppose, to them, I’m both of those things.
I turn my face into the pillow for a moment, teeth digging into my lip as the collar snags on my skin.
I don’t want to give in. I really fucking don’t. But I don’t think I can endure another round of pain from Brenna manipulating me with my blood.
With a sigh, I prop myself on my elbow, emerging from my nest of pillows.
Brenna steps back, giving me space to exit the bed, the blood vial clutched in her free hand so she’s ready to use it if I misbehave. It’s now attached to a delicate chain around her neck, which also features a golden eagle pendant resting against her chest in the deep V-neckline of her dress.
I stand in front of her. The robe falls open, exposing all of me. My chin held high, I meet her fragile blue eyes.
She gives me a brief, hesitant smile. “Thank you.” She releases the vial from her fist, takes my hand in hers, and leads me to the little pedestal in front of the mirrors.
I consider attacking her, consider grabbing on to the pretty, perfect bun at the back of her head and yanking it until her neck snaps, but I don’t. I’m still unsure what her endgame is. She helped me, lying for me and telling Amara I was a virgin. She took the blow from Nuncio, which was meant for me, when I sassed him.
She may yet be an ally. I can’t burn that bridge before I know if it exists.
Brenna hangs the garment bag on a small hook near the top of the mirror. When she returns to my side, she peels the red robe down my arms, setting it aside as she circles me to examine my naked body. She regards me clinically, like I’m an art project or a science experiment that she needs to ace to pass a class.
I form fists as her eyes roam over me. Her gaze catches the movement, and her hand lifts to the vial around her neck, but I uncurl them before she can use it on me.
I hate that I’m already responding to their method of conditioning. It’s debasing and cruel and embarrassing.
“Amara will examine you today,” she tells me when she’s completed one full circle. “She may suggest…improvements.”
“Improvements,” I repeat, my voice flat.
“Enhancements,” she clarifies. “Cosmetic fixes to make you more desirable to bidders.”
“Such as?” I ask through my teeth.
“It varies.” She grabs the garment bag. “Usually it’s surface level, but occasionally it’s more.”
I close my eyes, taking deep breaths to calm the panic and rage inside me. Goddess, is there any line they won’t cross? Is there no end to their depravity?
I sense Brenna stepping onto the pedestal with me, and I blink my eyes open and swallow against the tightness in my throat. She holds a black outfit, and as she watches me, her face softens for a brief, almost undetectable moment. But that softness is replaced by her fragile, broken, and blank stare as she lifts the dress over my head.
I slip my arms in, surprised and relieved there are sleeves. That relief is temporary, however, because Brenna moves around me to adjust the outfit, and I glimpse the rest of it in the mirror.
There are sleeves, yes, but the dress—if it can be called that—covers little. The top sits low across my breasts, right above where they are fullest, ruched together by a thin string in the middle of my cleavage. The sleeves themselves are barely attached to the bodice of the “dress”, and there are slits on either side that end at the tops of my hip bones.
Brenna stands on my left, tying the slit closed, then she moves to my right and does the same.
The irony of strings holding together a dress that barely covers my breasts and pussy is not lost on me.
I stare at myself in the mirror—there really isn’t anywhere else for me to look. The dress is so similar to something I would have chosen to wear forhimthat, for a moment, I forget I’m held captive by sex traffickers.
For a moment, I’m back in Crescent Lake with my red choker around my neck and Sebastian at my side, his fingers laced through mine. I’m in his embrace, his powerful arms protecting me and guiding me towards euphoria, his deep and commanding voice whispering sweet nothings to me and reassuring me as he holds me close.
Goddess, I miss him. Not a day passes that I don’t think of him, that I don’t remember our time together, that my heart doesn’t ache with need for him. But now more than ever, now that I’m further beyond his reach than I’ve ever been, do I truly feel the weight of his absence.
