“You have been recovering for eight months and still refuse to participate in group therapy, to share anything with any of your doctors or the staff.” The woman lifted a small Chippendale chair from near the dining table and carried it over to where Claire sat at her easel. Sitting back, Dane looked at her painting. “Are you not drowning in the silence?”
Claire turned her face towards the woman, accustomed to her short-cropped silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. “And what is it you want me to say? I told you, I don’t know where the virus is.”
“You have been given a dose of heat suppressant daily, but they cannot repress it forever. Estrous is coming, perhaps as soon as the morning, given your current temperature and disposition.”
The Omega’s lips formed into a line and anger found its way past mind dulling medication—as did a healthy dose of terror.
Premier Dane tried again. “I do believe it would be good for your recovery to engage in sexual activity.”
“No.”
She had a way with Claire, a skill even her psychiatrist lacked in gentle prompting. “An Alpha could be chosen for you. Or if you prefer, you can choose from any of the existing staff. Should they agree, of course.”
“No.”
“Your mate is dead, Miss O’Donnell. No matter the hallucinations or dreams. What you think you feel is not a pair-bond. It is only an echo you are afraid to let go of.”
Green eyes went back to the painting of poppies and Claire flatly declined to engage. “Who says I feel anything?”
Moving to the edge of her seat, Premier Dane asked, “Do you not wish to move on in your life? To have children?”
“I had a child. He died.”
“Your miscarriage was a terrible ordeal.” Dane took her paint brush away and set it aside. “You were raped by three of the castoffs your mate had left lingering in the Undercroft. This went on for many hours and left you scarred physically and emotionally.”
“Do you know when I woke up in this place,” Claire began, sneering and bitter that there was no trace of the purr in the air. “One of the first things the doctor told me was that he had saved my reproductive organs, as if I should be overjoyed. Tell me, what the fuck is wrong with all of you?”
Dane nodded, her face serene. “You believe you should not have been resuscitated.”
Claire said nothing.
“You were given a field blood transfusion. Did you know that?” Premier Dane tapped her knee with her finger, “A Follower bleeding out from many severe wounds gave you the last of his life instead of saving himself. He died next to you, assuring your heart would keep beating until help arrived.”
Looking away, riding the wave of drug induced apathy, Claire did her best not to picture Jules, knowing it had to have been him and doubting herself all the same—the Beta would not have done such a foolish thing if they were all going to die in a matter of minutes from the virus. Yet, all in all, when had life really made sense anyway?
Scowling, realizing the Premier had been successful again in making her think of things, Claire let out a breath. “There will be no estrous. Inject me with whatever you have to.”
“That is dangerous, Claire.”
The use of her first name made the Omega’s lips quirk and brought a small trace of amusement into the glassy gaze. “Is it Claire now?”
The older Alpha smiled warmly, like a mother, and leaned back. “I do believe we have reached that point in our association.”
“I am not going to call you Martin.”
A small frown came to the woman’s face, her brows drawn down. “You know my name is Lucile Dane, Miss O’Donnell. Who is Martin?”
Out of nowhere Claire’s lower lip began to tremble from the flash of memory. Eyes running over with tears at her slip naming the surrogate Shepherd had chosen for her, Claire whispered, “I want to be left alone now.”
Dane stood and put a hand on her shoulder, staying with her and purring through the entirety of the Omega’s meltdown, watching the woman press her face into her hands and sob as if the world was ending.It was Corday’s habit to surprise her with paper flowers he’d made himself during his infrequent free hours, pulling them from behind his back as if she did not know they were already there. The act was always matched with a charmingly boyish smile. And then brown eyes would take a few seconds to look her over for marks or signs of unspoken trouble.
Setting aside The Art of War, Claire left her seat at the window and went to greet her friend. “I am amazed you made it. I have been told there is a blizzard in the Dome.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged sheepishly. “It’s only a little snow.”