Page 60 of The Delta’s Rogue (Crescent Lake #4)
Sarina flies towards me, a shoe in her hand with the stiletto heel pointing towards my face. Rage, desperation, and resignation fill her eyes as she makes this last attempt to assert her will, knowing it will cause more pain for her.
I barely have time to react to her hysterical assault. I turn my head to the left a split second before the shoe meets my face.
The thin end of the pointy heel scrapes down my temple and cheek. Fear-induced adrenaline fuels Sarina’s attack, giving her enough energy and strength to pierce my skin and draw blood. Hissing, I grit my teeth against the pain, tensing and readying myself for her second strike.
She snarls, drives her knee up between my legs towards my crotch, and winds herself up for a second blow with her shoe. My thighs clench together before she can hit me in my groin, but the heel is already descending towards my face once again.
On instinct, I grab her wrist when the shoe is within an inch of my face. I grip it tight, ignoring the burn of silver against my palm from the cuff around her arm and the fireworks of the mate bond from where my skin meets hers.
The shoe tumbles to the floor.
Her eyes clench shut, and she whips her head violently from side to side. “Don’t touch me!” She thrashes around, her other fist smashing against my chest in agitated repetition. “Let me go! Please let me go!”
Her shoulders heave, and her voice cracks as she begs me not to touch her.
Her scent—her sweet, seductive, perfect scent—fills my lungs with each breath I take.
Stronger than the hints of it I caught on Brenna and more intoxicating than it’s ever been, it pinwheels around me with increasing insistence as her resistance increases in its aggressiveness.
My lycan—already agitated from the way they displayed her during the auction, and from my refusal to give him free reign to tear out the throat of anyone who even blinked in Sarina’s direction while she was in such a vulnerable state—pushes further to the forefront of my mind, drawn forward by the marvelous scent.
His instincts meld with mine, and without thinking it through, my hand tightens around her wrist.
I can’t let her go. She’s my everything. I’ve spent too long without her to even let her out of my sight.
She screams as my grip tightens. The shrill, hysterical noise torpedoes through my body, straight into my heart.
The scream morphs into broken sobs interspersed with agitated, unintelligible pleading.
Her palm presses into my chest, using my body as leverage as she fights against my hold on her arm.
“Lemon,” she gasps between her cries. It’s the only word discernible amongst the garbled utterings spewing from her mouth. “Lemon. Lemon!”
My reaction is immediate. I release her from my grasp, keeping my raised hands close to my shoulders as I step away from her.
In all the time we spent playing together, in all the time I spent teaching her about the relationship between a Dom and his sub, she never once uttered her safe word. Now, in this Goddess-forsaken place, her gut instinct is to use it.
Sarina doesn’t seem to realize that the male in this room—the male who “bought” her—is me, but she clings to the only scrap of hope she has left, to the lifeline of safety embedded within that word we agreed upon together, even though she knows it won’t mean anything to anyone other than me.
She tugs herself away from me with renewed energy at the exact moment I release her. The force of her frenzied movements sends her stumbling backwards. She trips over the dropped shoe, arms flailing, and falls to the floor.
“Lemon.” Sarina repeats the word, scooting backwards on the floor to put as much distance between us as she can. Her hand curls around the other shoe, and she waves it like a weapon, a sword. “Lemon,” she murmurs again, hugging her knees while still defending herself with the makeshift weapon .
Tears, barely visible behind the strands of hair draped across her face, stream down her cheeks. The shoe she’s holding shakes like the last leaf left on a tree in autumn. Sarina holds her legs in a vise grip, body tense as she waits for her master to retaliate for her rebellious attack.
My lycan wrestles me for control. Our mate is terrified and crying on the floor, and we should be comforting her, reassuring her. We should be holding her in our arms and whispering to her that she’s safe now.
My soul aches with the effort of my restraint. I want to scoop Sarina against my chest and smooth her hair away from her face, to embrace her and soothe her pain and fear away. I want to tell her I’m proud of her for defending herself one last time.
She’s so small and fragile and broken. She needs my comfort and my strength. But I refuse to touch her while she’s in this state and doesn’t realize who I am. I refuse to touch her until I have her permission.
So I stand there, frozen, blood dripping down my face as her body shakes with sobs and violent shivering tremors. I wait for her to realize I will not punish or hurt her.
A raging maelstrom of emotions stampedes through me. Sarina’s are indiscernible from my own, heightened by the newness of the connection from our mate bond.
Fear and panic spiral together, forming a heavy chain rivaling the strength of the bond between us.
The chain wraps around her fragile soul, catching on the fraying, broken edges of her heart.
It weighs her down, holding her captive like the shackles on her limbs and the collar on her throat.
Around and around it twists, forming an impenetrable shield of self-preservation and survival.
A shield to hide away—to staunch the best parts of herself—so she can convince them she’s everything they want her to be, until she’s forgotten who she truly is.
Surrounding that shield of pain is a void.
Where there once was a passionate fire that sparkled and danced and teased, there is now only endless dark.
Hollow, unyielding, and stained with the resignation I felt within her during her auction, it fills every inch of her, leaving nothing untouched by it save for that diminished fragment of her soul trapped behind that chain of anguish.
She’s drained herself of everything and surrendered herself to this fate.
Her exterior reflects her interior. Her body, once all toned muscle with subtle curves along her hips and thighs, is thin and frail, weakened by the silver shackles and her time spent as their captive.
The long, thick locks flowing from her head gleam in the light, but it’s superficial, a fake shine, enhanced by magic and cosmetics.
Her gorgeous medium-brown skin has lost its golden, sun-kissed luster, and through her hair, I glimpse the dark, almost black circles under her eyes and the hollowness of her cheeks that make her appear sickly and gaunt.
They did this to her, to my little rogue. They broke her, weakened her body and mind, and whittled her down until only the thinnest sliver of her spirit remained—a sliver so tiny, so fragile, that the slightest pressure would have it disintegrating until there’s nothing of it left.
I will kill them for it. Everyone who had a hand in destroying my mate’s spirit will face my wrath, and none of them will survive the experience.
She can’t feel our bond, not with the silver encircling her skin. She can’t sense me on the other end of it, but I send her everything I feel for her. Everything I’ve tucked away inside me during the years of our separation, I push it all to her.
My love, a love that’s only grown stronger despite her absence. My desperate, aching need for her. A need that’s not physical but emotional. She’s not just the love of my life. She’s a part of my soul, a piece that’s been absent for far too long.
I push that need and love to her, weaving the tendrils of it through the layers of her broken resignation, hoping that maybe—just maybe—a wisp of it will find its way to her through our blocked bond.
Confusion forms within the hollow resignation and burning anguish as the minutes pass and I remain in place, hands in midair instead of doling out a punishment for her insolence.
I push harder as she processes my lack of reaction, and as I continue to send her my love, I absorb some of her pain and bitterness.
Only a small amount, a fraction, but it’s enough to relieve her from the full weight of her burden.
And fuck does it hurt. I don’t want to imagine what she’s experienced for this grain of sand I take from the mountain of her misery to bring me as much pain as it does.
It braids itself together with the agonizing loneliness I’ve endured without her, amplifying it and extending it.
It brings tears to my eyes with its extreme potency.
She lifts her head an inch off the floor and peers at me. Her eyes meet mine and—for me, at least—the tether of our bond strengthens.
Her eyes widen and fill with shock and disbelief. Minutes pass, or maybe years, with us locked in a staring contest, neither willing to move. Then she covers her mouth as her eyes squeeze shut.
I swallow against the painful lump in my throat, forcing myself to speak and break the silence. “Sarina.”
My voice breaks and is nothing more than a nearly inaudible rasp. But she hears it. Even with the silver cuffs and collar blocking her enhanced hearing, she hears me say her name.
Her real name. Uttered by my voice.
She opens her eyes again. A flicker of hope forms within their depths. It’s minuscule and brief, but it’s there.
“?Sebastián?”
She whispers my name as if she doesn’t believe I’m real. As if she doesn’t believe her eyes, afraid I’ll disappear into thin air, disintegrated by the volume of her voice. As if she thinks I’m a hallucination she conjured in her desperation.