Page 85 of The Delta's Rogue
She glances at the vial in her hand as the door unbolts and swings open. “The blood…expires, I guess would be the best way to describe it. The potency fades until it no longer works, and then we have to draw a new vial.”
Driven by Brenna’s magic, I move again, filing that bit of information away in the back of my mind.
We maneuver through the building until we reach the training room. Like the first day, we are the last to arrive. Unlike the first day, Amara pretends to ignore me as we enter. Brenna walks me to my spot in the front corner so all the girls can witness my humiliation, as they’ve done since that day I refused to strip for Amara.
Tables dot the floor around the oak tree etched into the surface, and the witches all sit in the chairs with the female they oversee standing next to them. The captives are all dressed in various pieces of lacy, frilly, skimpy lingerie, with heels on their feet and their faces dolled up. They’re only a step away from being as naked as me, but their submission is their shield.
It’s all an illusion. They’re allowed this luxury, this security blanket of clothing and food, only because they give in to Amara’s demands. They strip for her and degrade themselves over and over as she coaches them, instructing them to take their time and execute the removal of their clothing seductively. None of them seem to realize the irony of it all.
I may be naked all the time, but at least I still have my autonomy. Or some semblance of it.
As I face the rest of the room, my chin lifts higher, defiance blazing in my eyes.
Brenna sighs as she crosses in front of me towards Amara, her shoulders slumping and eyes lowered to the floor.
“You’re not the only one who is trapped.”
“If you die, he can’t keep his promise.”
“I know there are people out there whocare about you.”
Guilt floods through me. Yes, I have my pride, but at what cost? My life? Brenna’s life? The lives of all the females in this room, those who came before them, and all who may come after them?
And what of those who care about me? What will my death do to them?
What will my death do toSebastián?
I blink against the itch forming in the back of my eyes, and the doors to the room open. Wheels clatter and roll across the floor, and the scent of food reaches me, setting my stomach growling again. I track the movements of the food-ladened carts towards the tables, salivating with hunger and crying with frustration.
“Today, you will practice kneeling for your Dom,” Amara says.
The food is distributed to the witches seated at the tables. My body trembles, my weakness magnified by the rumbling of my empty stomach and the scent of food tormenting my senses.
“You will present yourselves and maintain your pose until I decide you’ve performed adequately, and then may you eat.” Amara walks through the room, observing the captives. “Kneel,” she orders one of the girls, pointing to the floor next to the witch accompanying her.
The girl drops to her knees as soon as the word leaves Amara’s mouth. Amara smiles at her, stroking her dark auburn hair away from her heart-shaped face.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” she coos. “Spread your legs a little more”—she nudges the girl’s knees apart—“like this. And lift your chest higher, so your back arches and you show your Dom your gorgeous breasts.” Amara circles the girl, nodding as she critiques her pose, gently prodding her to adjust her posture. “Yes. That’s perfect,” she declares once she’s satisfied with the positioning. Her eyes scan the room as she spins in place. “This is how you present yourself.” Amara gestures towards her pupil, and everyone stares at her.
The female does nothing to stop them. She kneels in her lacy bra and panties, her face blank and eyes staring straight ahead.
She’s given up.
“All of you will strip and mimic her pose,” Amara instructs. “You may stay dressed,” she adds to the girl she asked to demonstrate as if she’s giving her a gift.
Around me, the girls undress, using the techniques Amara’s taught them to show off their best assets. One by one, they lower themselves to their knees, placing themselves at the feet of their witch and at Amara’s mercy.
She roams the room, surveying the females like a tyrant surveys their kingdom. She holds no emotion other than cold, cruel satisfaction in her eyes. Standing tall, with shoulders back and chin held high, she looks down her nose at her groveling subjects, wanders between them, and pets their hair or squeezes their shoulder before moving to the next female. Her silky straight hair shines, and the rustle of the train on her dark gray gown blends with that of stripped clothing dropping to the floor.
My eyes remain on the first girl, who’s broken and numb and moldable. Everything Amara wants us to be. Everything Brenna wants me to pretend to be.
And that pose. It’s familiar yet not—a perversion of the position I placed myself in when I submitted to Sebastian during our last night together. How can I kneel like that for someone else, for someone who hasn’t earned and doesn’t deserve my respect and my submission, without breaking?
I bite my lip and hold in the sobs rattling my chest.
“Pretend to break,”Brenna said.
Pretend.
