Page 42 of The Delta’s Rogue (Crescent Lake #4)

Indecision wars within me.

The room returns to its normal size. Vast and gaping, it’s filled with eyes locked on me, waiting to see what I decide. Amara watches me, a glint of satisfaction and the glitter of triumph in her eyes, and that fake, oozing smile forms on her lips.

I know what she’s doing. She’s attempting to create a false sense of security for me and the others, making it appear as though we can trust her. She’ll use me as an example of what happens when we oppose her. And she’s testing me, feeling out my weaknesses and limits.

She thinks she has me pegged. She thinks she knows me.

But I know her. I see the cruelty ingrained into her soul. It seeps from her like sap from a tree.

She won’t uphold her word. She only wants to see me break and give in. When I do, when I’ve humiliated myself to her satisfaction, she’ll take my tattoos anyway, to remind us all that she’s the one with the power.

I said I wouldn’t let them take my tattoos, take Sebastian’s words, after they’ve already taken so much from me. But I won’t bend to their will for this.

I can replace my tattoos. And I do not submit to those who are beneath me.

“Anaís?” Amara prompts, tucking a loose curl behind my ear. “You need to decide, sweet girl. Will you undress willingly and keep your gorgeous, meaningful tattoos? Or will you force Brenna to use your blood against you? ”

I hate the way she talks down to us. I feel so small—like a flea next to a mountain, a dandelion seed carried away by the wind, a human about to be stepped on by a giant. It’s demeaning and infantilizing. And I won’t stand for it. I won’t take it.

“Fuck. You.” I spit the words at her in a low but firm and resolute voice. I hold my chin high, looking down my nose at her even though she’s much taller than me.

She blinks at me once, but that’s the only outward reaction she gives to my words.

“What was that, sweet girl?” Her hand rests on my shoulder, and her fingernails bite into my skin.

“I couldn’t quite hear you.” Her brows raise slightly, and she looks at me pointedly, giving me a chance to redeem myself, to take back my response.

I won’t.

“ Vete a la mierda ,” I repeat. “ Tú y tus brujas— you and your witches—and the disgusting males who brought all of us here. Vete a la mierda for thinking you can take our choice from us and force us to submit to you by using our bodies against us! Fuck all of you!”

With each word I utter, my ability to speak diminishes until I’m fighting with all my might to throw my curses at her.

But I push through the pain even as Brenna uses my blood to silence me, to protect me from Amara’s wrath for speaking to her this way.

I focus all my strength on spitting these words out, on asserting my dominance—however short-lived it may be.

No seré silenciada . I will not be silenced.

I can take whatever Amara dishes out. I’ve known a pain worse than anything she can think of.

Nothing compares to the agony of walking out of that clearing and leaving mi vida , my entire life, behind me when I did.

Nothing measures up to the ache of the cavernous crevice in my soul that grows with each day we’re apart.

The room around us goes silent. Every occupant stands on the edge of a precipice with widened eyes. They all know I’ve crossed a line and wasted my chance to take it all back. I took Amara’s “grace,” threw it on the ground, and spat on it.

In an instant, Amara’s demeanor shifts. The caring, kind, gooey motherly figure is no more. Her eyes dilate until they’re pitch black.

I’m immobilized by Brenna’s blood magic. Her hold on me is mightier than it was when I shot my venomous vitriol at Amara. Either Brenna didn’t give it her all when she tried to silence me, or I used too much of my strength to spew my words at Amara, and I now have none left.

Amara scrapes her nails across my skin, leaving scratches behind, and rips the sleeve from my dress. It slides to the floor, and she lifts her other hand to my chest, tracing along the bust of my dress until she reaches my cleavage.

Her fingers slip between my breasts and slice through the string tied into a dainty bow.

The left half of the bodice slips from my chest, exposing my nipple to the cool air of the room and all the eyes filling it.

My nipple tightens and hardens, peaking from the whisper of air floating across it, and I hate that I can’t control my body’s natural reaction to the temperature.

I hate that she can not only see my bare breast but has a glimpse of how my body looks when I’m aroused.

My muscles, bones, and skin ache as Brenna holds me in place for Amara to violate and degrade.

The magical connection from the blood in Brenna’s hand to the blood flowing in my veins vibrates through me, creating tiny shocks of electricity that never end.

I can’t fight Brenna’s hold on me, and I can’t fight Amara off of me.

I’m forced to submit.

It’s humiliating and demeaning, but it’s better than giving in to her demands. No matter what the outcome is, it beats offering myself to them on a platter.

Amara releases me from her grasp. I’m sweating, even though my body is ice cold since Brenna’s magic is no longer providing me with comforting warmth. I tremble and sway on my feet, but Brenna keeps me upright, keeps my knees from collapsing under the weight of my exhaustion.

“Make her do the rest.” Amara shoots Brenna a quick glance before returning her predatory focus to me.

“Yes, Mistress Amara.”

I brace myself for the pain and the nauseating, infuriating frailty that accompanies the physical manipulation of my body. No matter how many times I experience it, the perversity of it never changes. The shock of someone else making me move does not fade.

Respira, I remind myself. Just breathe .

My hands undo the ties holding the slits closed, and I ignore the robotic movements of my puppet-like limbs.

They move to the hem of my dress, and I try to close my eyes so I don’t witness the hideous glee shining on Amara’s face.

Brenna’s control doesn’t allow me to, though, so I let my eyes go unfocused, staring off at a spot on the wall behind Amara.

Brenna forces me to peel off the rest of the ruined dress, and it joins the torn sleeve on the floor. My arms rest at my sides, chest and shoulders heaving from the hidden exertion of fighting the blood magic, but I keep my chin high, maintaining my proud and defiant demeanor.

Amara examines me, and her smile grows as her eyes move lower and lower on my naked, exposed body.

“Everything about you is so lovely.” She cups my face in her icy, cruel hands. “Why would you want to hide this exquisite beauty from us? From anyone?”

I clamp my mouth shut tighter to prevent myself from snapping at her. Not that I can. Not with Brenna’s hold on me.

“It’s all right.” Amara’s thumb rubs my cheek. “You should be proud of the way you look. You will draw the attention of all the bidders with the deepest pockets. There will be a war between them all, with you as the prize.”

My throat strains as my teeth grind together. My gut reaction is to shake my head in response to her words. Yo no quiero eso . I don’t want that. I don’t want to be a prize, a trophy. I don’t want depraved men fighting over me and bidding on me. The thought has me ready to vomit.

Amara circles me. “Yes,” she mutters as if she’s reassuring herself. “Just lovely. Arguably the prettiest one we’ve ever caught.”

She rubs my back in what I assume is supposed to be comforting circles, but instead of soothing my aching tension, it creates more. The urge to flee battles with the magical energy pulsing through my blood that prevents me from moving.

“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 around me, 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.”