Stolen (Alpha's Claim 4)

Shepherd remained steady while she was still unstable. He did everything in his power to maintain a front, but she could see the gnawing guilt scratched on his soul. Even more, she felt the memory of his intense loneliness.

She had mourned, and he had borne it from this great distance, all the while building this new life for her.

“Was it hard for you?” She wasn’t sure why she’d asked. She was not sure she wanted to know.

He frowned, agitated even if offering a stoic exterior. “Being separated from you was necessary. You required extreme medical attention I could not provide, nor would you have survived the flight. I did what was best for you no matter my”—he seemed at a loss to find the word—“discomfort.”

Claire understood. Shepherd had sacrificed his well being. He’d had only a strained link, and it had been his turn to relentlessly pace—as she had once paced—because he had to so he might keep from going mad in this fine house.

Had he heard her voice? In moments of madness, had he searched room to room as if he might find her?

Did he dream of her every night, or had he suffered nightmares as she did? Had his years in the Undercroft seemed a haven in comparison?

The Omega nestled closer, shut her eyes so she might enjoy the tug of his fingers in her hair.

She was supposed to be happy now. She was supposed to pretend. This house was hers. Outside was a verdant terrace garden surrounded by high walls waiting for her admiration. Green dresses he’d chosen hung in her closet. Rooms full of distractions waiting to tempt her.

She could play the contented kitten, and she did. But in moments like these, she did her best not to meet his eyes. Her acting was abysmal, and they both knew it.

The silver saw everything: his skeletal mate, the dark marks under her eyes, the way her hands shook. He saw further than nails she’d chewed to stubs. And still he pretended not to see her scars.

It’s like he wanted to only look at her, and not the history written on her skin.

Claire knew what he was about. In Thólos, he’d manipulated and forced her into physical health. He thought to do it again. Maybe his will was strong enough to achieve his goal.

Hers was not.

“You want me to tell you I love you,” Claire sighed against his thigh, knowing how to soothe the sharp concern Shepherd tried, and failed, to hide in the bond. “I do.”

“Do you?” Reaching down, Shepherd pulled her to fit on his lap, a pleased growl offered when she nosed his neck. “Clever little one, do not think I’ll let you off with flattery and sweet words. You promised to walk with me outside. Don’t nap too long.”Chapter 12Nestled deep under the covers, Claire woke alone. She knew that if she stepped out of the nest, if she tiptoed to the window, she would find him. Whatever mess she had made of the garden the previous day, he tried to repair while she slept, uprooting plants she’d over-pruned and replacing them, as if his mate wouldn’t notice.

It was sweet, in Shepherd’s strange way. It was also true that if he didn’t put in the secret effort, everything would have died weeks ago.

Once, she had once told him she wanted a garden, windows too.

Now she had both.

He had made his own promises, ones she wanted nothing to do with: a grand new world.

Claire, what happened in Thólos?

It was the same question every day. This grand new world, if it even existed, was unknown to her. Much of the last year within the North Wing was a blur, what happened before a nightmare, and its toll had been taken.

She wasn’t Claire O’Donnell anymore.

The venue had changed from North Wing to Greth Dome, but the schedule remained the same: medication, therapy, painting, music.

A beautiful piano was downstairs, a black grand she could play in the sunlight while surrounded by a view of beautiful plants. But she was only allowed to play after she answered the question: what happened in Thólos?

Everyone around her knew what had happened in Thólos. Dr. Osin knew. Though Claire had never seen her there, the old woman’s accent was her own.

It was insulting that she had to sit across from the unwelcome female and face that question morning, noon, and night.

Her psychiatrist’s hair was almost white, steely, her form wiry and strong. There was nothing soft about Dr. Osin—she was a Follower, after all. One, Claire was certain, must resent the assignment of tending to their leader’s broken mate.

“What happened in Thólos, Claire?”

“A lot of people died.”

“Who killed them?”

“I did.”

“Because of this?” A flyer bearing her naked image, aged and creased, was slid across the coffee table between them.

Claire didn’t want to touch it, was certain she was going to be sick. “I hate Thólos.” Her throat was tight, the space behind her eyes burned. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”