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

The man nodded, entirely self-satisfied. "But it was necessary."

He was twisting her words, using the opportunity to influence. He remained unreactive, patient, and Claire wondered why he seemed pleased at her question of, "Where will it end?"

Shepherd answered like a father educating a child. "In a cultivated Utopia."

Fighting not to grit her teeth, Claire went back to the topic at hand. "Full of damaged people? How will Shanice enjoy the world that inspired her rape?"

"Had you not interfered, she would have been safe, separated from the dangers of Thólos, and cared for by her mate—who would have provided all she needed. Charles was a good man, one deserving of the gift of an Omega's love."

She was not going to beat a dead horse. "In this utopia, where is justice for my dead boy? The children suffering and dying are innocent…"

"Children are being neglected and destroyed by their own people. My Followers do not harm them."

"But they don't help them, they perpetuate the suffering. I don't understand how you cannot see what I see," Claire, green eyes wide and beseeching, said. "Shepherd, you set convicts free; you inspired brutality. You are more dangerous an infection than the Red Consumption."

"Less than twenty-thousand men were set free in a city of millions… a city of people who chose to embrace violence rather than stand honorably—a people who are easily corrupted. I never told them to pillage, rape, or murder. Thólos is responsible for its actions."

"You manipulate us all with a skill that is terrible, yet could be redirected." Stamping her foot in frustration, Claire demanded, "Why not inspire goodness, why not try to change the world through nonviolence?"

"It would be pointless in a place so immoral and corrupt. You cannot reason with these types of people, little one. You cannot explain or educate. They are absolutely aware of what they do. They don't care about you, your goodness, or anything beyond their own insatiable desires. After all, what do you know of Senator Kantor, the champion of the people? That man would do anything for power, manipulate anyone for wealth. He knows secrets that, were he to divulge them to the resistance, they would slit his throat."

Fighting not to lose ground or be distracted, Claire growled, "You are bitter because he is still free, because he fights."

Crossing his great arms over his chest, Shepherd said, "What makes you think I don't know where he is at this very moment?"

She took a deep breath, she made herself look passive. "There is no resistance."

"There never will be." Creased skin around his eyes exaggerated Shepherd's smile. "Thólossens will never rise up at the cost of their dwindling comfort."

Knowing the question would irritate him, Claire asked bluntly, "Has my flyer had an effect?"

"Yes." Silver eyes lost their mirth, their shifty furtiveness, and narrowed in disapproval.

That was something, that inspired hope. "So you're wrong."

Shepherd developed a hooded expression, answered as if reluctant. "Your picture has led to a rash of violent murders of black-haired women who look like you. My men find more every day."

Claire's voice hitched, the sliver of hope she'd had shattered. "You're lying!" But she was already crumbling, because it was just too fucking believable.

Gently, Shepherd asked, "Now do you understand just what the citizens of this city are?"

Head in her hands, Claire began to weep, the responsibility for each unknown woman's death carved into her forever.

He had outmaneuvered her again; he had won.

Even scooped into circling arms, wracked with sobs, hating herself for what her flyer had inspired and how utterly stupid she was for not recognizing what it could lead to, Claire sagged to the floor. He was inside her in seconds, purring and petting, holding her tightly so she would not hurt herself by fighting back. She cried the entire time, tears running even as she climaxed, even as he told her sweet, soothing things. When that didn't work, Shepherd proclaimed it was not her fault, that she was good, and even he knew that she could not have suspected such an outcome—she was free of guilt, she was pure, her ideals were noble… the city did not deserve her.

He told her he loved her.

She quieted a little.

The following twenty-four hours, Claire could hardly bear to leave the nest. Shepherd left her in peace so long as she ate everything he brought her, including fried potato wedges with mayonnaise and a chocolate shake.

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?"

"Look who wants presents?" the blonde sang, reaching into her coat for a tube of lipstick.

Unscrewing the lid, Maryanne made a face like an artist creating a masterpiece. Claire leaned forward, puckered, and let her stain her lips a rich berry red.

"Well, I'm not going to lie," Maryanne shrugged, unimpressed. "It's a little trampy on you, but Shepherd might like it."

"It's the same color you're wearing!" Claire snorted, snatching the tube from Maryanne's hands. "I had a lipstick like this once, never had a place to wear it."

"What do you mean place to wear it? You just wear it," her friend replied, settling back in her chair.

Claire's soft smile was gently reprimanding. "That's easy for you to say, Alpha. If you draw attention, being as pretty as you are, you don't have to worry about potential complications."

Yawning, Maryanne shrugged. "That is just silly, Claire—and paranoid. It's just lipstick. And I guess you don't have to worry about that anymore. Ain't no one gonna to be messing with Shepherd's old lady."

Green eyes grew sad. "That's not what I hear is going on outside…"

"What do you mean?"

A guilt-ridden voice confessed, "Women who look like me… because of my flyer."

"You
told
her about that?" Maryanne snarled at the hostile male watching from the corner. "What is wrong with you?"

Claire could not see his reaction to her friend's outburst, but knew it couldn't be good. She interjected, "I am not a child, Maryanne. I asked, and he told me the truth."

Maryanne had her own harsh take on things. "None of that was your fault, you know. I thought the flyer was pretty ballsy, but you've got to get it through your thick skull, girl. Thólos is a bad place full of bad people."

"People can change," Claire breathed, knowing it had to be true.

Maryanne cocked a brow and made a hard point. "Do you think Shepherd can change?"

The Omega tilted her head, thinking about it before looking over her shoulder. Her eyes met Shepherd's.

He glanced down at her stained lips, seemingly intrigued.

Standing, she walked, careless of her newly lacquered toes, and went to stand before the male. So many contradictory thoughts were running through her head. His behavior towards her had changed, was far more palatable, but all of that could easily be summed up as an insincere strategy to gain her affection. After all, she was certain there had been no change in him outside their den or in his dealings with Thólos.