Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 68699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
"Yes." Silver eyes lost their mirth, their shifty furtiveness, and narrowed in disapproval.
That was something, that inspired hope. "So you're wrong."
Shepherd developed a hooded expression, answered as if reluctant. "Your picture has led to a rash of violent murders of black-haired women who look like you. My men find more every day."
Claire's voice hitched, the sliver of hope she'd had shattered. "You're lying!" But she was already crumbling, because it was just too fucking believable.
Gently, Shepherd asked, "Now do you understand just what the citizens of this city are?"
Head in her hands, Claire began to weep, the responsibility for each unknown woman's death carved into her forever.
He had outmaneuvered her again; he had won.
Even scooped into circling arms, wracked with sobs, hating herself for what her flyer had inspired and how utterly stupid she was for not recognizing what it could lead to, Claire sagged to the floor. He was inside her in seconds, purring and petting, holding her tightly so she would not hurt herself by fighting back. She cried the entire time, tears running even as she climaxed, even as he told her sweet, soothing things. When that didn't work, Shepherd proclaimed it was not her fault, that she was good, and even he knew that she could not have suspected such an outcome—she was free of guilt, she was pure, her ideals were noble… the city did not deserve her.
He told her he loved her.
She quieted a little.
The following twenty-four hours, Claire could hardly bear to leave the nest. Shepherd left her in peace so long as she ate everything he brought her, including fried potato wedges with mayonnaise and a chocolate shake.
Chapter 14
When Claire woke the following day, Shepherd bathed her, dressed her, and brought out the handcuffs so that he could take her to see the sky. Deep down, she knew self-pity would get her nowhere. She wanted to rally, to get back to forging progress, because she owed it to those murdered black-haired women, but lost faith was a slippery slope, and she had nothing to hold on to.
Shepherd tried to give her that something.
He carried her to the room with the window. He locked the door and showed her his latest gift. Her mother's piano rested against the wallpaper, his Followers having dragged it all the way from Claire's ransacked apartment.
There was no bench, only a small stool he took himself, leaving her on his lap where she might frown at the scratched keys. As they were still chained, Shepherd followed where her fingers flexed, his body surrounding her like a blanket.
One aching breath and Claire closed her eyes. In a stupor, she began to play Bach just as her mother had taught her. The pedals were tricky to reach with the male serving as her seat—a man with his hand over her womb, who moved as she moved, never once hindering. They were a single creature. Even the bulky arm chained to hers followed smoothly; Shepherd never tugging the metal links, never interfering.
Breathing in time, crying softly, Claire purged. It was all there in the melody: sorrow, shame, guilt. But as the music went on, as rumbling purrs filled the air in concert, despair changed into something that hurt a little less.
Claire was no virtuoso, her fingers hit sour notes, but performing gave her pleasure. It was pleasure she allowed, that she sucked in as if starved for it. Wet eyes opened, more tears fell. Precious sound, the feeling of keys, of warmth, drowned out the pain.
But even so beautiful a distraction could not last. "I would never have made that flyer if I'd thought others would suffer."
Shepherd embraced her tighter. "I am aware."
It was only a whisper. "Thólos needed to know. They needed to see. But they have done nothing. They are doing… nothing."
Shepherd breathed at her ear. "You cannot save Thólos, little one."
Banging the keys in a mishmash of off-putting noise, Claire ended the concert. "I shouldn't have to! You should not have done this!"
Hand on her belly, scarred lips at her ear, Shepherd murmured, "If I had not come, what kind of life would you have had, Claire?"
What she'd always pictured. "I would have found a husband, had kids, painted… I wouldn't be afraid for my friends, mourning more people than I can remember. My beautiful city would not be in ruins or my home destroyed."
Shepherd used her reasoning against her. "The people you care for are safe because of you. My men watch over them. You still paint. You have a mate who would see to any need you expressed to him, so long as it did not endanger you—one who requires your patience. Beyond that, will you not find pleasure in the child I have given you?"
Hot tears falling free, Claire looked to where a very little life would be snuffed out when she ended herself—a little life that was growing daily and becoming more real, which affected her and increased her dependence on the Alpha purring at her ear.