Chapter Twelve
“You’re going to make a mess of yourself if you don’t get a hold of your ire,” Lexia said, while she dabbed a clean white cloth on Delila’s ass and thighs.
Delila was sobbing, her head buried in the brocade pillow at her face. “Ouch, that stings,” she protested.
“Fier was especially hard on the thighs, they burn don’t they?” Leaving Degas offices, Delila returned with Fier to the hallway alcove, not even waiting for morning light. She’d been ravaged with fifteen sharp cuts, six hitting her upper thighs.
“They hurt like hell,” Delila told the woman.
“More advice, my pet,” Lexia said. “You have to consider yourself lucky to be here at Outer Island. Even if you don’t think so, you have to put on that guise for Degas. You cannot show your fury, not for any reason, and espe
