Chapter 10 #2
She moved into the bathroom, ignoring the light laughter coming from the giant splayed on the bed.
A long shower that was blissfully alone helped to clear away the remnants of her nightmare.
It was not the first time she’d dreamed she was locked in a cell, her upper body pressed to a stinking cot while a devil rutted her painfully.
Beyond the bars, masses of Alphas watched and waited.
Their faces contorted, they snarled and snapped, reaching through the metal bars, stretching inhumanly until they could almost touch her.
Claire did not want to think of the Undercroft, of the things that were locked in it, but the feelings of the dream seemed to linger like a stain even a scalding shower could not wash off.
She turned off the water, combed her hair before the foggy glass, and felt the woman in the blurred reflection was a ghost.
Shutting off the light, she went back into the main room of her cage and found Shepherd had created daytime by switching on every light.
Once she was clothed, he left to retrieve her food.
Her paints had been cleaned up days ago, his ejaculate from the floor as well, but the portrait remained on the table.
She was not exactly sure why he had left it there, and she had tried to ignore it as she ignored him, but it seemed the incorrect eyes were always watching her.
Studying the thing, the rugged face of the man who hurt so many people, she could not find what about the painting had seemed to please him.
Of course, she may have completely misread his reaction—the Alpha was layered in half-truths, and had no qualms about deceit if it meant he would attain his goal.
But something in the cord, something on his end, had been so very satisfied at what she’d done.
Claire had wanted a reaction, she had got one. Now she had no idea what it meant or how to use it.
Absorbed in the flawed eyes, she listed the mistakes in her rendition.
They were not hard enough; the silver did not hold back a tidal wave of twisted history.
Shepherd just looked like a man. And how would she look if someone were to paint her?
Would it be the ghostly blurred image from the mirror, or somebody completely different?
Had her eyes become infected with the same thing that lingered in his?
How much time would it take for her to wake up and no longer care about the forty-three lives he held over her head, or the millions in Thólos she had to find a way to fight for? Why had she not just stomped her foot against the ice and cracked it so powerfully that they both were sucked under?
Her slender hold on composure began to slip just as the bolt on the door hissed its metallic warning. Shepherd had returned. Quickly scrubbing her face of tears, Claire sat straight and prepared for the next round.
The man came in with a tray and set it down before her, noticing the redness around the eyes of the woman sitting ramrod straight.
When she saw what he had brought her, Claire began to sniff. She reached for a steaming fried potato wedge, dipped it in mayo, then dunked it again in the chocolate shake. Shoving it in her mouth, tears began to fall, her acknowledgment pathetic. “They’re really good.”
“There are no raspberries on premises. They will be acquired shortly,” Shepherd explained, assuming she was, at last, having some sort of pregnancy moment.
Sniveling, Claire dumped the chocolate shake over the hot fries, smearing into the mess.
She gorged, sniffing and frowning, devouring what to Shepherd looked absolutely disgusting as if it were manna from the heavens.
By the time she had finished what had to be the unhealthiest thing on the planet, her brief blubbering was over and she felt much better.
Wiping her mouth, Claire looked to the man who’d observed her meal.
It was obvious Shepherd wanted her to thank him—he had done something nice for her, something apparent and obvious that she had requested specifically.
All those other months, she had defiantly used none of his things outside of mere necessity, never made requests aside from demands of freedom…
simply to make the point that she was refusing his hospitality.
But this meal she had blatantly stated she desired, and he had delivered it, though it was clearly something he had not thought was best for her.
In his strange language it was almost as if, again, he was affirming there was a new precedent and that he was making an effort.
Looking down at the remaining melted mess on her plate, Claire took a deep breath and breathed it out. “Thank you.”
The tray was scooted aside before a large hand came to her face and turned it up. His thumb rubbed away a missed smear of chocolate, Shepherd very pleased. “You are welcome.”
She did not want to look into those impossible eyes, but he held her in thrall.
Claire was lost as she measured how many deaths stuck to him, how many appalling things he’d done of which she hoped never to learn.
Why did he have to have a tragic history that haunted her sleep, and how had he become so distorted he’d developed into the harbinger of Thólos’ apocalypse?
Why was she even thinking of all that shit?
Shepherd gave her time, taking in her confused expression as she confessed, “I dreamed of your Undercroft, and I was trapped with the prisoners reaching for me through the bars… while I was being raped like you said.”
Elbow resting on the table, he cupped her cheek and purred, “It was only a dream. You are safe here and will never endure the Undercroft.”
She sniffed, lost in the quicksilver changefulness of those damn eyes. “What’s it like?”
Unsure exactly how much he should disclose, Shepherd said, “Dark, cold. The prisoners eat the mold on the walls. There is no sewage system. In the tunnels it is easy to get lost… many go missing. As a child, an inmate told me those tunnels span the entire continent of Antarctica. They go on for ages; you walk and walk, and never find a way out. But you do find the bones of others who’ve gone mad searching the paths only to die from lack of water or starvation. ”
“I dislike that I feel pity,” Claire breathed, eyes full of sorrow, “for you.”
The way he watched her, the slow move of his analyzing gaze, it was if he already knew everything she confessed. “Little one, it is merely an indication of your nature to feel compassion—even for me.”
Her brows lowered, that little line forming between them. “Is this where you call me a coward or a fool?”
Shepherd smirked. “You are somewhat foolish, but you are not a coward—simply na?ve. What you are is innocent.”
But that was not true. Disappointed in his answer, she rose from her chair, hands tugging the straps of her dress so the fabric could whisper down her body. Eager to finish the final requirement to leave the room, she moved, naked and expressionless, to stand before the Alpha.
He took in the secret places of her body, but did not touch.
Voice harsh, Claire felt the guilt, the anger, the fear eat her up. “What do you see now?”
Slowly, Shepherd met her indignant expression, softly purring, “My mate.”
The thrum was deep in her chest, something it took a great deal of focus to recall was unwelcome. Confused, she watched him, unsure why he wasn’t touching her. Unsure why they were not already on the bed, or table, or floor?
The moment was growing into something it was not meant to be.
Just as she was about to turn, to just walk away from him, the growl was made. It was loud, expectant, and brought with it a small pleasurable cramp as her body instinctively responded.
Slick came thick and copious at such a call, dripping down her leg. Shepherd watched the little trickle, captivated.
Rising slowly, he pulled his clothing over his head, stripping down to only flesh until he stood before her in an equal state.
He was beautiful and grand, all the glorious epitome of Alpha physique in the control of a man who used such strength ruthlessly.
Claire had to crane her neck to look up, to keep her eyes off his marked body where she could focus on his face and those hated eyes.
“What do you see when you look at me, little one?”
A monster, the man who had ruined her life, the little boy raised in hell whose mother had performed unspeakable acts just to secure him a knife, a former prisoner who had dedicated his love to Svana, a man with twisted faith, the male who had betrayed their pair-bond and caused her great pain, her jailor, the father of the life growing inside her, a creature she could not trust…
Claire drew a deep breath and said the only thing she could. “I see the Alpha pair-bonded to me.”
“Can you not see more?” Shepherd hinted, trying to draw out the proper words.
Her reply twisted in the thread and tore out her heart, but Claire stood still, her face a mask, and spoke the hated truth, “I see my mate.”
“You are doing exceptionally well today,” the Alpha claimed, but still he did not move.
And Claire understood. Shepherd wanted her to initiate sex, he was pushing her boundaries, seeing how much she was willing to exchange for what she wanted.
She let out in a low whisper. “I can’t.”
“You can.” Shepherd was confident, nodding for her to try.
Already half-high, drugged in scent and the call, Claire knew in truth she wanted it.
She wanted him to fuck her so hard that she forgot herself, that Claire disappeared.
It had been her only respite since their deal had been struck, her only succor the distraction of sex.
In a sick way she almost longed for a heat cycle, a mindless source of existence that shut off her thinking until all that mattered was physical gratification.
But she could not allow herself such a thing if Shepherd didn’t force it or take it.
It would make the act of mating something she could not bear.