Born to be Broken (Alpha's Claim 2)

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.