“It is a live feed, which you will find on screen seventy-two. Meet Jacques Bernard, the regent of Bernard Dome and his Omega, Brenya Perin. I would like to know why Jules’ tenure in their prison involves watching the Omega suffer.”
“Gross. Look at her face, she’s mangled.” Maryanne was already totally sucked in, speaking to herself when she muttered, “Someone get that girl a sandwich. Oh, and some backbone. Did you see that? She’s not even fighting anymore. Who treats their mate that way?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“It’s just wrong… she’s crying.”
“Every hour, Maryanne. On the hour. Or all the screens go dark, your food dries up, and all you will have left as you starve is the painting to remind you of how horrible you truly are.” And like that, he was gone.
Every hour, on the hour, she sent a report, unsure what Shepherd was looking for, but scandalized by what she found as she switched on more screens.
Bernard Dome was more fucked up than she was.
And that was saying a lot.
6
Bernard Dome
Two china teacups, their golden rims catching afternoon sunlight, sat on saucers so intricately detailed that Brenya stole a longing glance in their direction. There wasn’t much time, which left her with no opportunity to admire the mathematical precision of hand-painted patterns. Right there on a silver tray sat true engineering, crafted many centuries before the Red Consumption ravaged the world. Art sculpted, painted, and lacquered by persons—not a fabrication machine. A simple brush held by a master. A precious treasure.
Right there.
So fragile it was uncanny.
Yet, more fragile was the woman rising to greet her.
High ceilings, frescos of playful cherubs painted onto the opposite wall. Gold finishings, damask curtains, polished wood, the scent of fresh flowers. It seemed the perfect place, positioned, adorned, landscaped—if you will—to showcase the slumbering baby in an elegantly carved cradle just so.
The entirety of the room had been fashioned to draw the eye to chubby cheeks and long eyelashes. To the gentle snores of a tiny human.
As if Brenya might not notice the two Beta attendants who tried and failed to become part of the architecture.
She stared at them more than she stared at the child, pausing in her rush forward to drink down every detail concerning the uninvited pair.
Just as the room was beautiful, just as the waiting table was beautiful, the servants—both female—were beautiful. Each with their matching, crisp white aprons and dedicated expressions of disinterest.
This was not what Brenya had paid dearly for. Another reminder that Jacques twisted his promises and took as he pleased.
Those two had no place in this moment.
They didn’t belong in the room of a mother and her child. Sentinels… spies.
Touching the uncomfortable lace at her throat, Brenya gave the constrictive garment a tug. Wincing when fabric cut into the concealed bite made by a rabid dog.
So much artifice.
What did it matter if the lace and silk of Brenya’s dress was soft? The fabric covering bruises and aching bite marks in pure white lied. It confined, rubbed where she ached—a constant reminder that she had been claimed roughly, used horribly.
Nervous fingers went from tugging at her too tight collar to smoothing back fallen strands of hair. She had rushed, and the bound-up mass held with a comb of glittering stones had slipped. Surprise, the most idiotic way to confine hair imaginable failed should she move at anything but a glacial pace.
Jacques had dressed her to his tastes. Meticulous, his fingers had been careful with each button down her spine. He’d drawn a brush through her hair as if the lightest tangle might leave her in tears.
Yet he had confined her in misery and inconvenience.
And then he had deemed it was time jewelry should be considered. Would Brenya be willing to pierce her ears? “Just a quick prick,” he’d said, fleeting pain that could be soothed as quickly as it came.
Her resounding “no” inspired the Alpha to cock a brow.
Which meant she had already lost.
The Commodore’s promises, interpretations, and manipulations—his way of asking by taking.
He may have been wallowing in his conquest, their pair-bond, and the joy it brought to his being, his feelings may have overshadowed all she was, but for a moment, her distrust and resentment were greater. She hated when he asked her opinion as if it might matter or alter his course.
She hated it.
Sour feeling poured right out of her into him, a choking miasma of uncontrolled anger. The homunculus of her rage grew as if a physical thing. Rising to stand over her, the look of shock upon his face had been followed by a sneer..
He reached out as if he was going to touch her… again… and Brenya fell into full retreat.
Eyes narrowing, the Alpha’s purr ceased—a vulnerable moment between surprise and defensiveness, which gave him away. Jacques Bernard, Commodore of Bernard Dome, would ultimately destroy her.