Even if her reasons were sound, it was as Dr. Osin said. She was a burden on a man already weighed down with so much. So she placed her other hand atop where theirs were joined, and said, “Tell me what happened.”
He gave her fingers a squeeze, gray eyes tracking to where his Omega offered comfort despite her indignation. “There isn’t enough information yet to state a hypothesis as fact. But I will say, if my suspicion is correct, he will never return to Greth.”
What was a girl to say to a mass-murdering tyrant who lost what might be the closest he would ever have to a friend? “I am sorry, Shepherd.”
In a very human gesture, the man rubbed his face, closing his eyes as he drew in a deep breath. When he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, Claire grew unnerved.
Only once had she seen Shepherd emote on this level, the night he handed her to another Alpha so she might be transported safely away from him. The night he was going to give his life for her and their son.
“Shepherd, whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it.”
His lashes parted, gray eyes liquid—as if they stung. “I’m thinking that Collin would have celebrated his second birthday this month.”
A pained sound hitched in Claire’s throat, her heart splitting right down the middle.
But it was as if the Alpha didn’t see her grief at the mention of their dead son, he was too wrapped up in his own. “Every day, I watch Followers’ families thrive. I watch them play with their children. And I envy them. They live, and I cannot even entice my perfect Omega, my beautiful wife, to attend a film with me. I have never known normal, Claire O’Donnell. And I grasp that you will punish me for the rest of our lives for my sins. The irony is not lost.”
With that, he left her in the garden alone. Entering their home as if he desired to be alone.
11
Bernard Dome
Wiping his lips on a snowy-white napkin, Jacques set starched fabric to the matching tablecloth. Fingers lingering over the formality, the Alpha male pensive, he said, “Brenya, I know it must appear to you that these complications are insurmountable, but I assure you, they are not.”
Brenya spun a forkful of Pâtes d'Alsace on her spoon, just as she had seen Jacques demonstrate when the pasta course arrived. The action was… soothing. The twist of the wrist, the mechanical requirement to use two utensils. Like tools fine tuning a sprog.
Yet somewhat exacerbating.
Before reassignment to Central, Brenya had never participated in a meal that required more than one utensil.
The little tools in her hand, solid gold and weightier than the sporks supplied to the masses, offered a semblance of what she missed. At least, she had slowly come to grasp that she could simulate the fine detail work of her true vocation in pointless everyday exercises.
Work within the confines of your station and situation.
The fork, for example: gold was soft, malleable at low temperatures, a poor choice for any tool, but an excellent choice for improvising in a pinch. That was fascinating, in a sense. Each tine might be reworked to create something beyond a food stabbing device. The curve-shaped length of the utensil was similar to that of a lever. She could pry open generally anything that didn’t require much force.
With that fork and a strategy, she could dissect Jacques' bedroom in a day. Considering that he always left the dinner course out on the patio setting where he preferred they share their evening meal, she had access to two forks. Two knives. Two spoons.
Gold conducted electricity extremely well. This sample in her hand wasted on something used for food. Had she the ability to draw out the metal, enough wire could be created to build… well… lots of things.
Outside of her specific assignment, improvising was frowned upon in Beta Sector, yet she had a knack for imagining what might be. Not that she had ever told any of her sisters or friends. Brenya saved such things for work. Like the time during an emergency descent when she had saved an entire loose panel from crashing down the Dome. Had it fully broken free, the weighty thing would have done catastrophic damage. Yet while others braced against the glass by her side, Brenya used her suction grip bars as if they had been intended to fortify two panels and not bear her weight.
Which was strictly forbidden when making the climb.
Protocol, focus, process, acceptance.
There had been no fanfare when the panel was saved. The highest praise she received for thinking on her feet had been the utter lack of mention of her breach of procedure. There had been no write up.
George had even smiled at her when they were alone to talk over the daily status report.