Page 66 of The Delta’s Rogue (Crescent Lake #4)

Quiet. Blessed quiet. And sweet, sweet relief.

I exhale, releasing what I hope is the last of my tension. There is still much for us to work through, so much that needs to happen before we can put this experience behind us, but at least we’ll have each other. At least we’re finally together again.

I gaze at my mate in my arms.

My mate . I can’t believe she’s mine, even though a part of me always knew she would be.

Exhaustion lines her features, and fear lurks within her eyes.

Invisible scars mar her soul. Scars I would do and give anything to erase.

Much about her has changed since last we met, but beneath it all—beneath the sorrow, trauma, and frailty—there is an exquisite, strong, extraordinary female who has owned my heart since the day we met.

She shudders with every breath. Her eyelids flutter, and the blackish-blue circles under her eyes darken with each second that passes. A yawn stretches across her face, and she tries to hide it by snuggling further into my chest.

“You need to rest,” I say.

Like the one at the auction estate, this room is immaculately decorated from the floor to the ceiling.

Unlike the room there, however, the atmosphere here is warm, kind, and safe.

The beautiful decor in shades of the softest, lightest pink adds to the comfort of the space rather than feeling phony and tacky.

Thought, love, and personality went into this setup.

Sarina shakes her head and tenses as I approach the bed, stopping me in my tracks.

“I don’t think I can sleep with the cruelty of that place lingering on me.

” Her nose wrinkles, and she grimaces. “I can feel the weight of their beautification treatments on my skin and the grime of the makeup on my face.”

I head into the connected bathroom instead, scanning the interior for linens and toiletries. Thankfully, there is a stack of towels on the counter, and a plethora of hair and skin care products and tools lined up next to them.

I have no idea what most of them are. I hope Sarina does.

“Here we go.” I set her down and brace my hands on her hips. Her face tilts up, eyes wide and doe-like as she watches and waits for me to speak. “Do you want a bath or a shower?” I flick my eyes between the two options in the mirror’s reflection.

She leans to her left to peer around me at the rest of the bathroom, and I drop my hands from her hips.

The seconds tick by, and she continues to stare as the weight of the choice bears down on her.

Her shoulders curl forwards, her body caving in on itself, and she backs up one step, bumping into the edge of the black marble counter behind her.

“Hey.” I reach for her hand. “You don’t have to choose if you can’t, remember? You will always have the choice to not make a choice.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve been able to choose anything for myself,” she whispers. Her hand trembles, and her eyes dart around the room, unable to hold contact with mine or stay focused on any one spot.

“I-I can’t—” She shakes her head and ducks her chin, and a tear drips down her nose. “I can’t.”

I lace our fingers together and lift her chin with my other hand. “I’ll start the shower while you wash your face, okay?”

She nods emphatically, gratitude filling her eyes. I give her hand a squeeze and her nose a kiss. The salt of her single tear lingers on my lips as I head to the shower.

Water flows from the sink behind me, and I fiddle with the knobs in the shower, turning the dual heads on.

I set the temperature to warmer than what I prefer but not too hot either.

I don’t know how much wolfsbane is in her bloodstream, so I don’t want to set the temperature too high for her weakened system.

The heated water may exacerbate the scars on her skin from the silver cuffs and collar .

I close the shower door and glance at her.

She leans over the sink, furiously massaging her skin.

As each layer of makeup leaves her face, I get a better glimpse of what’s underneath—the true extent of how her time there affected her.

The hollowed-out cheeks, the pitch-black circles beneath her eyes, the sickly tint to her skin…

So much damage for only a week with them.

What did they do to her?

Over and over, she scrubs her face and rinses it.

Three times. Four times. Five times. She grips the counter and lifts her dripping wet face to stare at her reflection.

Her hair frames her face, hanging like two dark sheets over her shoulders, and her eyes flick to the strands.

She straightens and grabs her hair in one fist, draping all of it over her left shoulder as she combs her fingers through to the ends.

A quiet growl vibrates in her throat, and her nostrils flare.

She grits her teeth and lunges for the toiletries on the counter, pushing everything aside and searching frantically.

A second, louder growl leaves her as she yanks open a drawer, then another and another.

She walks the length of the vanity, opening every drawer and cabinet, growing more frustrated with each one.

I approach her slowly, careful not to take her by surprise. “What are you doing?”

I shove my hands into my pockets to prevent myself from grabbing her.

I don’t want to scare her or push her back into a mindset where she feels she can’t do things for herself.

The two blood-filled vials and Brenna’s ring clink against each other as my fingers brush them, and I pull them out, frowning at them.

“Scissors,” she says.

I meet her eyes in the mirror. Hers flick down to the blood in my hand as she shudders briefly, and I close my fist around them to hide them from her view.

“I want scissors,” she says again. Her eyes shimmer in the fluorescent bathroom lights as she scans the vanity one more time.

“I want to cut my hair. They made it grow. They made it longer with their magic.” She closes her eyes.

“I hate it, Sebastian,” she says in a low voice as she opens her eyes again. “I hate my hair.”

I set the vials and the ring on the counter to worry about later, then move behind her and gather her hair into one hand. Even lifted into a low ponytail, the ends brush the top of her butt.

I smirk and extend a claw. “Do you want me to cut it for you? ”

She nods and stands straighter.

“How short do you want it?”

“Here.” She points to her collarbone. “Is that okay?” Her confidence falters, and her heart flutters.

“It’s your hair, carino . You can have it as short or as long as you want.”

I drag my fist down the length of it, loosening my grip just enough so the strands lie flat against her back, until my hand is right below hers. Then I slice my extended claw across her hair. The shorter strands sway from the momentum, and she watches them with fascination.

She combs her fingers through the new hairstyle and, as she does, a weight lifts from her shoulders.

“We can have someone clean up the ends later.” I toss the remnants of her long locks into the trash can.

“Do you like it?” She faces me, her hands still playing with her hair, her expression relaxed for the first time this evening.

The shorter style swings and bounces. Her hair was never this short when I first met her, but it brings back memories of our time together four years ago. It reminds me of the spunky, playful, badass rogue I fell in love with.

I tuck a stray strand behind her ear with a smile. Then I grip her chin so her eyes stay on mine as I answer her question, ensuring she doesn’t revert to the timid, submissive mindset they instilled in her. “It’s perfect. I love it.”

She lets out a sigh of relief as she thanks me. “Gracias, mi vida.”

“While you’re in the shower, I’ll stay right here.” I step back and cross my arms. “I won’t watch. I’ll turn my back and close my eyes, and if you need me for anything, I will help. But I can’t leave you in this room alone. My lycan won’t let me.”

A hint of a smirk twitches her lips and lights up her eyes. “Only your lycan?”

I chuckle and shake my head, reveling in the brief laughter dancing across her face. It’s only a glimpse of her former, fiery self, but I savor it. I’ll take whatever I can get.

“Just get in the shower, carino .” To punctuate my words, I spin and face the mirror. I close my eyes and lean my palms on the counter .

The soft rustle of fabric sliding over a body and landing on the gray-tiled floor tells me she’s taken my shirt off. I wait, straining my ears to listen for the lingerie to follow, for her to cross the room to the shower, open the glass door, and step inside.

But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, her heart races. It climbs steadily until it reaches a sprinting pace. Her breath matches the rhythm, leaving her lungs in short, frantic exhales, tinted with whimpers and shaky cries.

“I can’t get it off!” Her words ring through the bathroom, echoing off the clean, smooth surfaces. “I can’t take it off!”

Her choked, pained voice yanks me away from the counter and towards her.

Her hands claw at the bra and underwear I dressed her in, but the garments remain on her.

She tugs at the fabric and scratches her nails across her skin, leaving pink marks everywhere.

Blood beads within several of the scratches, and I lunge for her, grabbing her wrists so she stops hurting herself.

Then I remember. It’s enchanted lingerie. Lingerie she could only put on if I let her or dressed her in it myself. I’m guessing the same is true for removing it.

“Take it off me!” Her voice pierces my eardrums and my heart. “Please, Sebastián ! Take it off, take it off, take it off!”