Best of all, as Shepherd thrived, as he gave Claire the things that would bring her happiness, nothing but corpses and rot would be left in a place he hated with all his heart.
Everyone left in Thólos would succumb to plague.
Toying with a strand of Claire's hair, Shepherd grinned-vindicated, in perfect alignment with the universe, until he heard her call out.
It had been only a little noise in the dark, a voice laced with fear … a call for him to help to her.
Mechanically he moved, swift to gather her close. "I am here, little one."
Shepherd could see she was not quite awake when, instead of tensing up at his touch, she gripped the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer, urging him to surround her in his heat and strength.
Swallowing, trying to catch her breath, Claire tried not to think of the sound of screaming convicts and lingering echoed flashes of men lining up to hurt her in her dream. It had been another horrible nightmare of the Undercroft Shepherd had described from his childhood; a prison that gave birth to monsters, inhabited by demons even Maryanne had once warned still lurked down below.
Brushing the hair from her face, Shepherd encouraged her to calm. "You are allowing your brooding to affect your dreams."
Claire released her grip on the nightmare-inducing monster at once. "I'm fine."
"You would not call out for your mate if something had not frightened you."
Shepherd rolled them, holding her to his chest so Claire might rest atop him as she had slept before the complications of the last few weeks. In that position his vibrations would pass far more noticeably into her, and the hatred in her eyes would go back to the faraway stare of complacence.
"What time is it?"
Shepherd did not let her budge, but answered the question. "A little after 16:00."
God, she was so tired even after all that sleep. Too tired to protest the thick arms that came to embrace and stroke, feeling guilt she was experiencing comfort from such a thing, she complained, "I hate the hours down here … everything is backwards."
"If you had slept during the evening instead of fighting the rest you require, then you would have settled into regular rhythms."
Claire gave an annoyed groan at his pointless lecture. It was his fault she could not sleep, his fault her mind was unstable, his fault she'd had the nightmare, his fault she could feel again and that everything felt horrible. Unsure if she spoke simply to annoy him, or to test him, or because it was what she actually needed, Claire muttered against the fabric of his shirt, "I want to go outside."
The purring stopped.
A moment of time hung between them, the air tangible with mutual dissatisfaction. Trilling her fingers on his chest, she made it clear she was waiting for an answer and that there was only one right one.
Everything about his reply was displeased and growled with great annoyance. "You will eat and bathe first. After we have mated … I will escort you to see your sky."
How fucking romantic.
In the mood to continue being difficult, Claire said, "I want to eat fried potatoes with mayonnaise."
He threaded his fingers in her hair. "No."
"And a chocolate shake."
"No." Shepherd stroked her spine in an attempt to urge her to fall back asleep and forget her expectation of the sky.
"Raspberries, lots of raspberries."
"That you may have."
Aware he was trying to make her melt until she forgot her request, and conscious Shepherd was about to achieve his goal, Claire began to wriggle away, stretching like a cat and cracking her spine. He made her work for her escape. Even with his arm just lying across her, the damn thing weighed a ton, and he seemed far more interested in groping her ass than letting her up. In the end, she bit him and slipped out of reach.
Shepherd found it funny.
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's 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."