Page 80 of The Delta's Rogue
“Her hair needs to be longer,” she says, and Brenna nods. “Other than that, she’s perfect.”
“The tattoos?” Brenna asks as Amara hums to herself.
“Take them now.”
My eyes flutter shut, and my breath quickens. I knew this would happen, but that doesn’t stop my heart from racing.
Amara strokes my hair, from my crown to the ends, petting me like she would a cherished family cat, and I’m powerless to stop her. Her cruel amusement coils aroundme, winding its way through the room like a slinking, stalking creature searching for its next victim.
As Brenna approaches me, I hear her inhale and sense her steeling herself. A howling scream builds inside me, but the spell used against me gives it no outlet. It’s trapped, just like me.
“Shh…” Amara wraps her arms around me and presses a kiss to my temple, like a mother comforting her child after falling. “It will be over soon.”
I tremble, and muted whimpers—the only noises able to escape me—vibrate in my throat.
“Force her to watch,” Amara commands Brenna, her tone shifting from calming to domineering in a heartbeat.
My eyes fly open and meet Brenna’s.Por favor, I beg her silently.Please don’t do this to me.
Her face is blank, unreadable. She stretches her hand towards my ribs, and I do everything I can to writhe or squirm or inch away.
But I can’t.
The howl of anger in my mind morphs into a roar of brokenness as the first line of text disappears from my skin. I’m thrashing and yanking at the magical reins of electricity holding me in place, but it makes no difference. The words continue fading, one by one, until they are no more.
Something inside me breaks as the last word vanishes. A chip forms in my armor, creating a weak spot in the safety net I’ve created for myself.
Solo son palabras. Es solo un tatuaje. They’re only words. It’s just a tattoo.
I tell myself that over and over, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done. Another piece of Sebastian is gone, taken from me by their hands.
Amara releases me, and I collapse into a heap on the floor, unable to stay upright even with the blood magic. The hold is still there—I can’t curl in on myself or turn my face away from the prying eyes of the other captive females in the room—but at least I no longer have to stand on my feet.
I hear nothing as Amara approaches the rest of the females to examine their naked forms and speak to their attending witches.
Brenna kneels on the floor with me. Her hands tremble as she combs her fingers through my hair. The strands fall in front of my eyes, shielding me from view, and through my blurry, tear-filled gaze and soaked lashes, I watch as my hair thickens and lengthens.
The double doors open and more witches enter, wheeling carts into the room. The scents of freshly baked bread, tender meat, and savory blends of herbs and spices waft through the room, teasing my nostrils and taste buds.
Comida.
My stomach gurgles as the scent of food grows heavier. I haven’t eaten since the night they took me from the alley. I’ve been too caught up in everything they’re doing to me, withdrawn into a shell to protect myself and focus on finding a way out, that I pushed my hunger aside.
But now that food is right in front of me, that hunger forces its way to the forefront of my mind until it’s all I can think about. The pain in my muscles, the ache in my heart, the panic in my soul—all of it is minuscule compared to the gnawing hunger in my stomach.
The atmosphere in the room shifts as the food is distributed to the tables behind us. The other girls take notice, and more than one empty stomach gurgles and rumbles in anticipation.
“Thank you all so much for following directions and sharing your gorgeous bodies with me.” Amara’s back is to me, her sugary voice directed towards the remaining girls in the room. “Your attendant will dress you and then feed you.”
Soft sighs of relief and sobs of joy fill the room. The rustling sounds of fabric and females being dressed provide background music for the clicking of Amara’s heels on the floor as she crosses to me. Even through the dense dark strands covering my face, I see and sense her sharp glare on my prone form. She snaps her fingers and beckons two more witches to her side.
Amara stares down her nose at me, distaste etched into her facial features, and she shakes her head in disappointment.
“Take her back to her room and chain her to the bed,” she orders. “She doesn’t eat until she willingly submits.”
The days blur intoa chain of monotony, an abstract painting of repeating shapes and colors.
Brenna wakes me in the morning—or what I assume is the morning—dragging my freezing body from the bed. She bathes me and prepares my hair and makeup, then she takes me into the room with the other girls, the witches, and Amara.
