Page 35 of The Delta’s Rogue (Crescent Lake #4)

Amara and the other two witches walk down the hallway, leaving Brenna and me alone. The spell holding my legs in place is gone. My chains remain, but I have control over my body, the magic no longer keeping me captive.

I could run again. I could make it to the exit. I know I could. The question is will Brenna let me? Will she let me make a break for it? Or will she summon Amara?

Whose side is she on?

I take a step, turning to head down the hallway, one eye remaining on Brenna.

She grips the vial of my blood in her hand, grits her teeth, and lifts her chin as she draws in a steadying breath. “I’m sorry.”

Before her apology registers in my mind, the veins in my body constrict. Intense, excruciating pain floods through me, through every cell, and I’m frozen in place, unable to move any part of my body. I scream, fighting against the magical hold on me, but resisting seems to only make it worse.

The pain burns and grows and pulses. The control over my body is a writhing, living thing with its claws dug into my soul, tattooing its existence into my blood and muscles. Its grasp becomes tighter the longer I fight it until all I can do is breathe.

“The pain will grow worse the more you struggle.” Brenna confirms my guess, her voice right next to me. “If you relax, if you let me control you, it won’t be as bad. It will be bearable, at least. ”

The air chafes and rubs against my eyes, eating away at the natural moisture there. I strain to blink, but it’s no use. I can do nothing that stems from my own desires. I can only do what she desires me to. What she makes me do.

I tense my jaw, hating myself for even considering giving in. But there is no alternative.

The only way out is through. La única manera fuera es através.

I end my resistance, and the pain ebbs to just a slow trickle—a dull ache similar to the annoying rub of the silver against my skin. Enough to be noticeable, to be annoying and uncomfortable, but not enough to have me crying, screaming, and writhing in anguish.

My feet move down the hall and back into the large room I ran from, Brenna at my side. She doesn’t touch me, but my every movement is controlled by her. I’m her puppet, her toy.

We’re silent as we walk. I have nothing to say to her, and I’m unsure if I can speak. If the blood magic will allow me to speak. Her eyes stay on me and mine stare straight ahead, watching where I am going.

The building is empty and lifeless. There are no traces of the others—of Amara and the two witches who helped her recapture me, Nuncio and his two stooges, or any of the other females and the males who brought them in.

It’s only Brenna and me, and the empty halls.

The interior of the building through the door on the right is the same as the interior we passed through before we entered the room where Brenna examined us: white walls, white-tiled floor, and gray doors.

Once more, I find myself counting the turns, the doors, and searching for security cameras the best I can with my limited mobility.

The robotic movements of my body are jarring. I grit my teeth with every step. The temptation to resist, to fight against the invisible strings manipulating my muscles, is fierce. But the pain I felt when I tried was fiercer.

Brenna halts her steps, and my body stops too. She presses her thumb to a scanner next to a door on our left—the third door from the corner—and once it opens, she moves us inside.

To my surprise, this room differs markedly from the room I found myself in upon my arrival. That room was bare bones. A cell. This room is large and luxurious.

Soft, warm ivory carpet squishes beneath my feet.

A large walnut bed with burgundy and gold bedding sits in the center of the wall on my right, topped with a mountain of plush pillows.

Straight ahead is a set of French doors leading into a large ensuite bathroom with gray wood floors, a claw-footed tub, and a gorgeous, ornate vanity complete with a cushioned seat.

To my left is a dressing area with three full-length mirrors around a low pedestal, next to a door leading into what I can only assume is a closet.

It’s gorgeous and opulent—a room that belongs in a luxury hotel or a mansion, not in the headquarters of a sex trafficking ring.

The door behind me shuts with a snap and the twisting of a bolt, and I sense Brenna dropping her control of my body.

The noises jar me from my perusal of the room, and with my newfound freedom of movement, I spin to watch the locks slide into place on their own, visible through the small space between the door and the frame.

There are no knobs or bolts on the door to manipulate them, only a thumb pad that matches the one on the other side of the wall.

I’m trapped in here, with a witch who may or may not be an ally.

The reality and the gravity of my situation set in.

This is what I wanted: to be kept here instead of sent to Nuncio’s club or one like it.

A club owned by a “Dom”, where the girls owned by him are whored out night after night and the guests are allowed to do whatever they want to them—provided they can afford it.

Yes, this is what I wanted. To be tucked away, hidden and protected from the depravity of one of those places. From someone other than him touching me, controlling me, playing with me… The thought alone has my skin crawling and my stomach boiling with bile.

I couldn’t survive that. It would devastate me, break me.

Puede matarme. It would kill me.

But now that I’m here, tucked away like I wanted, I’m not sure it’s any better. I’m safe from disgusting males who use and abuse females, but I’m in danger here too.

I don’t know where I am or how anyone will find me. I don’t know what I’ll face in the coming days, what their “preparations” and “training” will entail.

I can guess, but I won’t know for sure until I’m faced with it.

The panic claws at my throat again, threatening to make a reappearance. It swells and writhes, resisting me as I shove it down. Water fills my eyes, throat tightening, and I slowly face forward again with shaking hands .

“Come with me,” Brenna murmurs, striding straight ahead towards the ensuite bathroom.

I hesitate for a moment. I consider rebelling.

My eyes linger on the vial clutched in her hand, and those thoughts of rebellion dissipate.

The exhaustion I feel is bone deep, and the pain from her controlling me was unlike any I’ve experienced before.

There is only so much I can take. I have limited strength available to fight it off and heal my strained body in the aftermath.

I trudge after her. My instincts scream at me, thrashing at the wrongness of my submission to her in this moment and urging me to fight back.

Ese no soy yo.

This isn’t me, my instincts say. I don’t give up. I don’t give in. I don’t submit to anyone but him .

There’s no fight in me, though.

Brenna stands next to the large tub. Steam rises from within, filling the room along with the wafting scents of perfumed soaps or oils she’s placed within the water.

I stop on the opposite side from her, staring into the water as the bubbles swirl and rise. I sense her eyes on me. They’re sharp but not cold—not like Amara’s.

Amara’s gaze is cruel. Brenna’s gaze is exposing, like she can see through my mask to all the secrets buried deep within me even without touching my body and invading my memories.

Without a word, she rounds the tub and stands behind me, hands on the chain holding my arms together. She mutters quietly in Latin. The words are too soft and spoken too quickly for me to make them out.

Not that it would matter. I have no magic. Even if I did, I suspect they have precautions in place to prevent those they’ve captured from removing their own shackles.

The chain drops to the floor, rattling harshly. The sound grates in my ears, even without access to my enhanced hearing, and I wince.

She kneels and repeats the same thing on my ankles, freeing them from the chain suspended between them. I roll my shoulders and stretch my arms in front of me, relieving the aching tension from holding them in the same position for so long.

The silver cuffs stay, though, as does the collar, but I have free movement of my limbs. It’s a modest comfort, but it’s better than nothing .

Brenna rises to her feet, gaze wary as she watches me massage my wrists. My eyes dart around the bathroom, searching and analyzing, but her voice draws my focus.

“The door will only open for me or Amara, and the scanner can tell if we place our thumb on it willingly or not. If I’m not in my room in two hours, Amara will come check on me to make sure you didn’t attack me.

” She says each sentence clinically, like she’s reading the stats off of a chart in a hospital.

“And you have my blood,” I point out, nodding my chin at the vial clutched in her fist.

“And I have your blood.”

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.”