Page 76 of The Delta's Rogue
Being without him is like a sunrise without the sun. It’s the moon without the stars. Waves without an ocean.
“Anaís?”
Brenna’s hand on my shoulder and her worried voice yank me back to the present and back to my reality.
I inhale shakily and glance down, hands wringing together in front of my stomach.
“Let’s get the rest of you ready for Amara, okay?”
She takes my hand. Warmth floats from her into me, melting the thin layer of frost covering my skin from the frigid temperature overnight. As it spreads through my veins, a soft sigh of relief escapes me, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I need her magic to bring me warmth. I hate that I’m forced to rely on her.
She leads me to the vanity and places me on the seat, then gets to work on my hair and face. I sit with my hands in my lap and eyes straight forward on Brenna’s reflection, the eagle pendant and the vial of blood in my direct line of sight reminding me of what will happen if I try to attack her.
Pain. Excruciating, unending pain. Pain that can bring even the strongest of lycans to their knees, leaving them screaming and writhing on the ground as their blood turns against them.
My eyes flick to the cuffs on my wrists. As Brenna works on my hair, using her magic to curl it, my fingers lift to my neck, the tips of them tracing over the silver collar there. It burns the skin, but I grit my teeth and power through it. If I can find a seam, find where it clasps together, then maybe Ican—
“They send wolfsbane vapor through the vents at night.” Brenna pulls my hand away from my neck. “And even if you could access your werewolf strength, the cuffs and collar you wear can only be removed by Amara, me, or whoever purchases you.”
I stare at my fingertips as she speaks, digesting her words. My skin is bright red, and I wince, realizing the skin under my neck and on my wrists and ankles probably looks worse. The pain is dull—unending, but dull and mostly bearable—but that’s probably because the initial shock is gone, and because the pain from Brenna’s blood magic is a thousand times worse than the one from the silver touching my skin.
My hands fall to my lap in defeat. “It was worth a shot.”
I fidget with the hem of my dress. Brenna doesn’t respond. She instead pulls me to my feet and leads me towards the door without giving me a chance to see the final result of her dolling me up.
She hesitates when we reach the entrance to the room, then faces me. “I don’t want to chain you up or use your blood if I don’t need to. I don’t enjoy hurting you,” she adds under her breath. “But I will if I have to.”
My nostrils flare, and I glare at her. I don’t attack or lunge at her, but fuck do I want to.
“Stubborn. I should have guessed.” She shakes her head and grabs the vial.
But I pick up on what she tries to hide from me. I see the shaking of her hands. I see the glint in her eyes—a glint that seems hopeful.
Goddess, this witch is confusing.¿Ella es aliada o enemiga?Is she with me or against me? An ally or an enemy?
I brace myself for the uncanny feeling of her controlling my movements, but I don’t resist. The pain isn’t worth fighting just for the walk from here to wherever Amara is. But even without resisting, a whimper falls from my lips as Brenna maneuvers us into the hallway and through the building.
This forced submission is brutal.
The room she brings me to is in the opposite direction of the one she examined us in yesterday. It’s just as large, though, but it’s not bare.
Tables line the outer edge, placed around a carving of an oak tree etched into the light wooden flooring. Several other girls are in here as well, each dressed similarly to me in thin, almost sheer black garments that barely cover their bodies. Each is accompanied bya young witch with a vial of blood around their neck, each with silver cuffs and collars on their bodies.
A room full of captive female werewolves.
Amara stands at the front, in a long wine-red gown with a high neckline, an eagle pendant—similar to but bigger than the one on Brenna’s necklace—resting against her chest. A cold and cruel smile plays across her lips as she scans us. She nods her approval at Brenna as I’m placed at the end of the line of females.
“You all look so much prettier already than you did when you arrived.” Amara strolls in front of us, caressing cheeks or tucking hair behind ears as she walks. “Don’t you all feel so much better after getting cleaned up and having some beauty sleep in your comfortable beds?”
One girl nods, and I close my eyes for a moment, biting the inside of my mouth.
“Good,” Amara coos. “It’s always better to start your training when you’re feeling rested and taken care of.”
When I open my lids again, she’s in front of me. Her gaze lingers on my face. I know my eyes are puffy and irritated from my tears and lack of rest.
She arches a brow, but to my surprise, she doesn’t comment on my appearance. “This dress you chose for our sweet Anaís is perfect, Brenna,” she says instead. Her voice is tinted with pride for the female I presume is her protégé. She seems to have a greater interest in Brenna than in the other young witches involved in their operation.
“Thank you, Mistress Amara,” Brenna replies.
