Chapter 14
When Claire woke the following day, Shepherd bathed her, dressed her, and brought out the handcuffs so that he could take her to see the sky.
Deep down, she knew self-pity would get her nowhere.
She wanted to rally, to get back to forging progress, because she owed it to those murdered black-haired women, but lost faith was a slippery slope, and she had nothing to hold on to.
Shepherd tried to give her that something.
He carried her to the room with the window. He locked the door and showed her his latest gift. Her mother’s piano rested against the wallpaper, his Followers having dragged it all the way from Claire’s ransacked apartment.
There was no bench, only a small stool he took himself, leaving her on his lap where she might frown at the scratched keys. As they were still chained, Shepherd followed where her fingers flexed, his body surrounding her like a blanket.
One aching breath and Claire closed her eyes.
In a stupor, she began to play Bach just as her mother had taught her.
The pedals were tricky to reach with the male serving as her seat—a man with his hand over her womb, who moved as she moved, never once hindering.
They were a single creature. Even the bulky arm chained to hers followed smoothly, Shepherd never tugging the metal links, never interfering.
Breathing in time, crying softly, Claire purged. It was all there in the melody: sorrow, shame, guilt. But as the music went on, as rumbling purrs filled the air in concert, despair changed into something that hurt a little less.
Claire was no virtuoso, her fingers hit sour notes, but performing gave her pleasure. It was pleasure she allowed, that she sucked in as if starved for it. Wet eyes opened, more tears fell. Precious sound, the feeling of keys, of warmth, drowned out the pain.
But even so beautiful a distraction could not last. “I would never have made that flyer if I’d thought others would suffer.”
Shepherd embraced her tighter. “I am aware.”
It was only a whisper. “Thólos needed to know. They needed to see. But they have done nothing. They are doing… nothing.”
Shepherd breathed at her ear. “You cannot save Thólos, little one.”
Banging the keys in a mishmash of off-putting noise, Claire ended the concert. “I shouldn’t have to! You should not have done this!”
Hand on her belly, scarred lips at her ear, Shepherd murmured, “If I had not come, what kind of life would you have had, Claire?”
What she’d always pictured. “I would have found a husband, had kids, painted… I wouldn’t be afraid for my friends, mourning more people than I can remember. My beautiful city would not be in ruins or my home destroyed.”
Shepherd used her reasoning against her.
“The people you care for are safe because of you. My men watch over them. You still paint. You have a mate who would see to any need you expressed to him, so long as it did not endanger you—one who requires your patience. Beyond that, will you not find pleasure in the child I have given you?”
Hot tears falling free, Claire looked to where a very little life would be snuffed out when she ended herself—a little life that was growing daily and becoming more real, which affected her and increased her dependence on the Alpha purring at her ear.
As if he knew she refused to embrace the thought of her son, Shepherd cooed in her ear, “You will love our baby and sing for him, paint him pictures… and he will have dark hair like yours, and maybe your eyes.”
Never once had she allowed herself to picture the child. Hearing so tempting a description, Claire could not stop the image from invading her mind, hating the male who whispered so sweetly for the cruelty of what he was doing in making her son real.
Insistence invaded Shepherd’s attempt at gentle speech. “You don’t have to fight it, Claire. You could forgive me, forgive yourself, and your pain would end. You could do it for your son, so that he need not suffer a disengaged mother as you did.”
Her breath caught, she automatically pressed the keys to hide in her music. Gently, Shepherd took her hands, preventing her attempted distraction until his point was made.
“Have things not improved in these last weeks?” He stroked the trembling Omega; he kissed her neck.
“I know it has been painful for you to accept what you have faced between us, what you experienced in Thólos. I also know that you understand my purpose to a point, and though you may not want to admit it, you see how wrong this place is.”
“Please stop…”
“If you wish.”
His acquiescence was unexpected. Claire uncurled, tried to move her arms, and found Shepherd no longer held her from her goal.
She began to play again, the melody slow and wretched.
As her fingers roamed the keys, she thought of her mother, the woman who’d sat by her side for hours, patiently teaching her child the one thing she’d taken true joy in.
It was an act of love Claire had always wanted to share with her own children, part of the fantasy the Omega had envisioned in her perfect future.
Thoughts of her dead mother led to thoughts of her dead father—to the scent of orange blossoms and remembrance of warm sunshine. Her daddy’s laughter had been Claire’s favorite sound in the world.
Another male vaguely reminded her of the man: Corday, with his silly boyish grin, his kindness, his patience.
As if Shepherd knew, as if he could tempt her thoughts back to him, he lifted Claire’s skirt and caressed her thigh.
It felt good, the way Shepherd touched. It felt perfectly nice as the music stirred and her attention relaxed to alter tempo in time with the Alpha’s long warm strokes.
He grew more daring, and her breath caught when his large fingers explored, teasing in exactly the right spot.
The way he could play her body, the ease with which he parted her folds, how simply her legs spread of their own volition to offer access so he might please her… sometimes it seemed pure. “That’s right, little one.”
And that voice, the heat of masculine rasps, why could it have not belonged to someone else?
A dexterous thumb exposed her clit, circled it as she mewed and stumbled badly through a musical phrase. When thick fingers penetrated languorous and deep, Claire whined, her breath caught, and it was the Alpha’s name she panted.
“Shepherd.”
The bliss of his fingers slipped away, but in their place he set his member free and gently lifted his mate. He sheathed himself in a slow, deliberate entry. Cock engulfed, the Alpha remained still, set no pace—he only groaned at her ear while Claire instinctively gyrated for her own pleasure.
The heat of his hand returned, plucking at her swollen nub, drawing out whimpers and little stifled cries.
Claire no longer knew what she was playing or if it made any sense musically, everything was focused on the building pressure and the comfort of a familiar body.
Whatever her hips did, Shepherd’s fingers followed.
Though his breath was labored and he badly craved to rear up into that tight, little passage, he let her take what she needed.
It was not long before Claire’s movements grew erratic. At the sound of the Alpha’s desperate moan, she jerked and ground down hard, climaxing so beautifully the world went white.
Shepherd followed on command, drenching her insides in warmth and her favorite scent—something that had become far more gorgeous than the smell of orange blossoms.
Claire didn’t cry. For once she did not chastise herself.
She simply sat on his lap with the knot fusing their bodies, felt him still spurting in the lingering minutes of his own release, and began to play Bach again—because she had to survive herself, she had to survive to give Corday his chance no matter how badly the odds were stacked against him.
And she would not survive if she could not take the comfort Shepherd offered when she was so close to breaking apart again.
The Alpha growled, contented with each exhale. Nestling closer, he held her tight, and enjoyed Claire’s pseudo-serenity.
He had won. His mate was allowing their bond to soothe her.
“Gimme your foot,” Maryanne barked, shaking a little bottle in her hand with quick jerks of her wrist.
Stuffed full of cake—a huge tiered thing, frosted bird’s egg blue and beautifully decorated, a cake that could feed half of Shepherd’s army… that even after their brutal attack on it could still feed half of Shepherd’s army—the friends lounged and played at girly things.
Smiling, sitting slumped in her chair, Claire picked up one bare foot and stretched it over to set in her friend’s lap. “Why am I not surprised the color you brought is vampy red?”
Maryanne brushed a careful line of paint over Claire’s big toe, smirking. “Too sexy for prudish little Claire?”
“Says the girl who slept with every boy we knew…”
“After I left, did you ever cave in and date that that Seymour guy? He had such a crush on you.”
Claire groaned and rolled her eyes. “Gods no. I had my dad chase him off when he started sniffing around the house.”
Playful eyes glanced up, Maryanne motioning for the other foot. “What about boys in higher academy?”
Claire shook her head. “I was focused on my studies.”
“After academy?”
“Geez, you make me sound so boring!”
“So only Shepherd, huh?” Maryanne pretended to focus on her work, spreading the crimson paint carefully.
“That’s kinda too bad. I mean, think about it.
If you have only slept with Shepherd you have nothing to compare it to.
He could be awful and you would never know. I bet you wish you’d experimented now…”
Laughing so hard it hurt, Claire struggled to say, “Stop antagonizing him!”
“That’s what he gets for eavesdropping on girl talk. There are reasons why women congregate without men… so we can make fun of them.”
Claire was still laughing, green eyes dancing while innocent Maryanne blew on her toes. “What other interesting things do you have in your pockets?”