Page 44 of The Delta’s Rogue (Crescent Lake #4)

“Have you thought about what I said?”

I lift my eyes to meet Brenna’s in the mirror, but her focus is on her fingers running through the strands of my hair, using her magic to curl it into large, bouncy, glamorous waves.

It’s voluminous and heavy, hanging down to my butt now after Amara told Brenna to alter it, but even with the extra length and weight, the spell she uses to set the curls lasts the entire day.

She didn’t stay long last night after she planted the seed of her plan in my mind. She packed up her cart—and the robe she let me wear while she was in my room—and rechained me to the bed, leaving me alone with her words repeating in my head all night.

But this morning, after she unchained me, she stayed in the bedroom and let me bathe myself.

I reveled in the privacy, devouring it like it was a last meal—leaning my head against the rim of the tub and letting my body float in the warm, sudsy water for longer than necessary—while Brenna painted the illusion that she was bathing me as usual.

The heat soothed my soul and muscles, both worn out from the constant stream of limited freedom I’ve experienced since arriving here.

I fidget with the sleeves of my robe—the same ivory one she brought to me last night.

The silk is smooth against my skin. I can tell it’s expensive by the density of the fabric and the quality of the weave.

This one piece of clothing probably costs more than all the clothing I’ve owned over the last few years combined.

The opulence on display in this place is sickening, and all of it is funded by auctioning off females and their virginity.

“I’ve thought about it.” I brush off her question with faux nonchalance.

Of course I’ve thought about it. It’s all I can think about. Even in my sleep, Brenna’s plan plagued my dreams.

Pretend to break. Let them place me on the auction roster . Everything in me rebels against that idea. Submitting to them, even though it would be pretend, goes against all my instincts.

I’m terrified it will taint all my memories of my days with Sebastian.

He taught me so much, not only about the lifestyle but about myself and what I need from my partner.

Even though he dominated me during our time together, there wasn’t an imbalance of power.

We were equals. He had the control because I gave it to him, but I could take it back in a heartbeat.

All I needed to do was use my safe word.

These people… They won’t allow me that net of safety. Once I hand over the reins, there is no going back. I am theirs—their toy, their doll—until my people can rescue me.

If they can rescue me.

We’re pinning an awful lot on an “if”.

“You need to decide.” She curls the last section of my hair. “The sooner they’re ready to auction you, the sooner we can contact your people, and the sooner they can rescue you. I can only sneak you food for so long before someone notices.”

My stomach gurgles at her words—a stark reminder of my circumstances. I pull my lips into my mouth and nod. “ Lo sé ,” I whisper. “I know.”

“It’s time to go.”

I struggle to stand, knees wobbly and muscles quivering and achy.

The simple meal she brought me held me over for most of the night, but the emptiness it left behind once digested is worse than the hunger I felt before I ate.

The room spins, but I breathe through the dizziness and lightheadedness, drawing on the last of my strength as I remove the robe.

Brenna snatches it and shoves it into a vanity drawer, then meets my eyes in the mirror again. “I still have to use your blood,” she warns.

I don’t respond. I brace myself, preparing for the onslaught of tiny electric shocks circulating through my bloodstream, puppeteering my body.

The pinpricks pulse through me in time with my heart at first before they gain speed.

Then I’m placing one foot in front of the other, carrying myself through the room and towards the door.

But the magic is not as powerful as before.

Brenna presses her thumb to the pad to unlock the door. “She’s going to make me take more of your blood today.”

“ ?Más sangre? ” I grit out through my teeth.

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 who care 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 to Sebastián ?

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.

Pretending may be what breaks me.

La única manera fuera es através, I remind myself. The only way out is through.

I take one step forward. A tear falls down my cheek. My lip quivers, and I shake violently, shoulders heaving. Another step, and my hands curl into fists, my jaw clenching and teeth grinding together.

La única manera fuera es através.

My entire body fights me. My pride, my rebellious and wild nature, my heart—all of it begs me to reconsider. To stop, turn around, and hold my ground in the corner.

I take a third step, and every eye is on me, tracking my journey towards the tables, waiting to see what I’m about to do. A murmur swirls through the room like the rustling of the sand across the shore. I hear none of the words, but I sense their wariness and curiosity.

Tears stream unfettered from my eyes as I finish my journey, stopping at the only empty table in the room .

Amara strolls to the other side. Excitement gleams in her eyes, like a child on their birthday, and she grips the back of a chair, leaning forward in anticipation as she watches me.

I close my eyes and squeeze my fists tighter. Regret, remorse, shame, and resolve all fill me, fighting for dominance in my soul, as I send an apology through the void. Then I lower myself to my knees, avoiding Amara’s gaze as I wait for her reaction.

The only way out is through.

The wait is awful. She drags it out, taking her time to say or do anything, letting me marinate in my inferiority.

I maintain my pose—back arched, breasts pushed forward, knees apart, and chin high.

But I’m dying inside. Another piece of me shrivels and deteriorates, drying up and withering into dust.

It’s all wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Everything they do is twisted and sick, a distorted version of what a true Dominant and submissive dynamic should be, and it taints my memories of my days with Sebastian.

The tears don’t stop. They’re a constant stream of liquid, a river of pain and fear flooding the plains of my face.

There’s no point in stopping them. Amara doesn’t care if I cry. She only cares if I submit. And any male who buys girls from them won’t care either. Some may get off on the fear, the panic, and the tears.

Amara rounds the table. Smugness oozes from her as she squats in front of me to cup my cheeks in her hands.

“Oh, sweet thing,” she whispers, attempting to soothe me with her voice, her expression, and her gentle caresses of my face. “There’s no need to cry. Your body is a gift, a treasure. It’s meant to be shared with the world.”

Brenna stands behind her, and I hold her gaze. Liquid fills her eyes as well—a muted echo of the tears falling from mine—but there is hope there too.

I reach for it, wrapping my spirit around the tiny splinter of optimism, clinging to it like a life preserver.

“I’m so proud of you for making the right choice,” Amara praises in her twisted way. “You’re going to feel so much better now.”

I inhale through my nose, keeping the snot from joining the tears on my face .

I hate how weak I am in this moment, but I hate Amara more.

I lower my chin as she releases my face so she can’t see the fire burning behind the brokenness in my eyes, and I vow then and there to destroy her.

I’ll humiliate her the way she’s humiliated me and so many before me.

I’ll drag it out until she’s begging me to stop, and then I’ll continue, doubling down on my emotional and physical torture before I end her life.

A plate is set on the table in front of the chair I kneel next to, and Amara nods at it. “You may feed her now,” she says to Brenna. “Feed her and take her back to her room. You may give her clothes and blankets, but she still needs to earn her freedom from the chains on her bed.”

Brenna slides into the chair. She cuts into the meat, slicing it into bite-sized pieces and spearing them with her fork, her remorse-filled blue eyes flicking towards me as she prepares to feed me.

I take deep breaths, calming the stormy emotions filling me so I can chew the sparse meal they’ve allowed me to eat.

Amara circles the table, eyes shining with cruel delight, as Brenna lowers the food to my lips.

I shut out everything around me, shut out my fear, anguish, and regret.

I push down the hope that Brenna’s plan will work, and hide my intense love for Sebastian and my wild determination, until I’m nothing more than a shell.

A husk. A pretty doll— una linda muneca —for them to manipulate, use, and sell.

I empty myself of it all, bracing for the longest chess game of my life.