Born to be Broken (Alpha's Claim #2)(23)

"Fine," Claire challenged him, "I'll paint you instead."

Crushing the wet paper in his hands, Shepherd snorted. Once the painting had been thoroughly balled up and ruined, he threw it in the bin, found she still was willingly meeting his gaze, and slowly took the seat across from his mate.

He'd yet to strip off his coat or armor, looking just as he'd looked when Claire had first seen him in the Citadel-namely, intimidating and angry.

The hazy dreamlike high of estrous had made her find him attractive. Seeing Shepherd now, seeing him through her anger, disgust, and the effect of their re-established bond …  it was different on every level. Already reaching for a fresh piece of paper, looking objectively at the subject of her nightmares, Claire's eyes darted over the Da'rin marks creeping up his neck and a lifetime of collected scars.

The silver of his eyes never wavered as he watched her take him in, though they grew a little hard when she squinted and leaned closer. Then her attention went to the paper and, like magic, the lines of his face began to appear.

Every few seconds, inquisitive eyes would glance back at the motionless Alpha, run over whatever part of the outline she needed to adjust, and then go back to the paper. Quickly, the line of his jaw, his closely shorn hair, were captured in shades of black. Concentrating on her work, Claire began to create his mouth, with the scar she had once called beautiful slashed across it. Had they not been marred, Claire would even admit Shepherd's lips would have been considered handsome-their fullness almost pretty. His nose, now that she looked far more closely, was not straight; there were places, small deviations, where it had been broken and reset more than once.

Tiny scars were in his stubble, all over his hairline and forehead.

Picture nearing completion, only one key feature neglected, Claire took a deep breath and made herself look into Shepherd's eyes. The silver was so familiar to her, she could have painted them a thousand times without looking, but every study would have been eyes focused on intimidation, on drawing out fear. At that moment his eyes were almost complacent, the animal aggression, the focus of a predator, contained.

As he was, it seemed to take ages to translate such an expression onto the paper. She tried, but her interpretation was never quite right.

How could anyone capture eyes like that? 

"You are growing agitated," Shepherd commented, displeased when she began to glare down at the painting.

Again she tried to capture his expression. "I can't get the eyes right."

Slowly, his hand reached out and took the paintbrush from her stained fingers. The portrait was turned, Shepherd asking, "Is this how you see me?"

It seemed a strange question. Of course that was how she saw him, that was why she'd painted him that way. "I am better at painting landscapes."

His voice was odd. "You made me different."

"The eyes are wrong." Gathering up her supplies, she stood and rounded the table so she might clean her brushes. A large hand stopped her progress, pulling her closer. The paints were taken and set back on the table, his arm snaking around her middle.

Shepherd just looked up at her, regarded the dark-haired woman who'd painted him.

Holding her messy hands away so as not to smear his coat, she stood awkwardly, unsure why he was looking at her with such an expression. She had done nothing to soften him in the picture; every mar, every scar, every part of him was on that paper.

Shepherd pulled her to his lap.

Watching him as one watches a snake, Claire sat stiffly. He began to touch her face, to thread his fingers in her hair, and then those lips, the full lips she had translated perfectly, came to hers.

He was insistent even in a languorous slow kiss, even when she complained against his mouth, "I'm going to get paint on you."

Smiling into his answer, brushing his lips over hers he whispered, "Then get paint on me."

A warm tongue slipped in her mouth, Shepherd held her tightly …  but she did not kiss him back.

His lips traced her jaw, tasted her neck, nibbled at her ear while her eyes were on the portrait on the table.

"Kiss me, little one," he murmured against her skin, smirking as he purred.

"No."

The monster softly laughed and retook her mouth with passion, bowing her body until the table met her back. The paints were under her, their color seeping into her dress. Shepherd didn't care; all he wanted was his mouth on her body.

Fabric tore under his hands, her dress split down the middle.

"The paints," Claire gasped, worried they were being ruined, trying to wriggle off her things.

"Are nothing compared to this." The man fumbled with his zipper, groaning as he nosed her breast.

Lips were at her nipple, his tongue flicking the bud before he moved lower and pressed his mouth to her mound. He attacked her there, tasting a place he had not enjoyed since he'd collected her from the Omegas. Claire tried to push him off, squealed as her legs kicked, but Shepherd held firm.

Leaning up on her elbows, Claire's jaw dropped, her hips jerking to escape something so intimate. He watched her every expression, all the while thrashing his tongue in her pussy and releasing his cock from his pants.

When her legs began to twitch, her breaths nothing but stifled gasps of air, he drank her up, seeming to know just where to move that tongue until Claire's face grew pained and she began to come. A shriek, short and stuttering, passed her lips as the tight winding coil the man had fostered snapped apart. In answer, Shepherd grunted into her, wove his tongue deep, stroking himself madly under the table.

Her groans grew rabid, his fist tightly gripping his burgeoning knot until seed splattered the floor. Air ripe with the smell of semen, he rode the high, tenderly kissing Claire's inner thighs and mumbling that she tasted delicious.

Falling back against the table, Claire stared blankly at the memorized grey ceiling, trying to ignore that her thighs were on his shoulders, that he was licking her clean, and that he had, once again, expertly commanded her body's response …  as Svana had claimed the two of them had done to other Omegas.




 

 

That thought brought blistering heat to her chest, the painful knowledge inspiring instant anguish.

"What is wrong, little one?" Shepherd pulled his tongue from her slit. "I did not mount you; that should not have caused you pain."

Claire answered robotically. "It didn't hurt."

More soft kisses to her inner thigh and a strong purr preceded the promise, "I will replace your paints; you need not feel distressed."

To win the war, she would have to wage a battle. Closing her eyes tight, she told herself that she could do this. "It's not the paints. I was thinking of the Omegas."

"They are safe, as per our agreement. My men watch over them from a distance." Again he tasted her center, enjoying how she bowed from even a simple kiss over her pert nub.

Gasping, Claire answered, "Not those Omegas. The ones you shared with Svana."

The man froze, hesitating before he spoke. "Why would you think of them?"

Claire forced her eyes open, lifted her head, and found Shepherd watching her very carefully. "I wonder if they were frightened or ashamed."

Each word was growled. "They were all willing."

"Somehow I think you misunderstand the meaning of that word. Estrous bends the mind." She knew that better than anyone. "Did you speak to them before or after?"

"No."

Then they were probably dead. "That makes me sad."

Large hands accompanied an almost unsteady purr, Shepherd stroking her from her knee to hip. "Do not be sad, little one."

Claire lay back, eyes once again on the ceiling. "I do not remember how to be happy."



Leslie was on his couch, working on a COMscreen when Corday returned.

Her mouth was set and she was clearly displeased. "Another rendezvous with your Claire?"

"No." Corday stripped his coat, his back to the Alpha female.

"Yet you smell of her." Leslie scooted a little closer, her tone instantly light. "How is the Omega faring?"

Tired eyes, his face lined in disappointment, Corday could not muster any enthusiasm for Leslie. "Claire has-"

A knock sounded at the door, not Claire's timid scratches but an arrogant bang. Gun already in hand, Corday motioned for Leslie to move out of sight.

"I hear you breathing on the other side of that thing, Enforcer." The tiny view through the peephole showed an unwelcome woman. "Open up or I will simply turn the knob of the door I've already unlocked." Maryanne smirked. "I am trying to be civil."

Corday turned the knob, finding it was indeed unlocked, and opened the door far enough to point his gun at Maryanne's face. 

Maryanne sniffed and waved her hand at his petty threat. "I saw you skulking around the Omega's trash heap. Low and behold, it was Enforcer stink she was wearing when she came to me. Now that I smell her on you I see that I was right, as usual. Let me in, I want to talk to Claire."

Teeth clenched, Corday hissed, "She isn't here."

"Bullshit," the woman spat, looking over Corday's shoulder to peer into the apartment.

"You have three seconds to tell me who you are before I shoot you."

"Oh, shut up." The blonde pushed past him. "I'm here to see my friend."