"If you had slept during the evening instead of fighting the rest you require, then you would have settled into regular rhythms."
Claire gave an annoyed groan at his pointless lecture. It was his fault she could not sleep, his fault her mind was unstable, his fault she'd had the nightmare, his fault she could feel again and that everything felt horrible. Unsure if she spoke simply to annoy him, or to test him, or because it was what she actually needed, Claire muttered against the fabric of his shirt, "I want to go outside."
The purring stopped.
A moment of time hung between them, the air tangible with mutual dissatisfaction. Trilling her fingers on his chest, she made it clear she was waiting for an answer and that there was only one right one.
Everything about his reply was displeased and growled with great annoyance. "You will eat and bathe first. After we have mated… I will escort you to see your sky."
How fucking romantic.
In the mood to continue being difficult, Claire said, "I want to eat fried potatoes with mayonnaise."
He threaded his fingers in her hair. "No."
"And a chocolate shake."
"No." Shepherd stroked her spine in an attempt to urge her to fall back asleep and forget her expectation of the sky.
"Raspberries, lots of raspberries."
"That you may have."
Aware he was trying to make her melt until she forgot her request, and conscious Shepherd was about to achieve his goal, Claire began to wriggle away, stretching like a cat and cracking her spine. He made her work for her escape. Even with his arm just lying across her, the damn thing weighed a ton, and he seemed far more interested in groping her ass than letting her up. In the end, she bit him and slipped out of reach.
Shepherd found it funny.
She moved into the bathroom, ignoring the light laughter coming from the giant splayed on the bed. A long shower that was blissfully alone helped to clear away the remnants of her nightmare. It was not the first time she'd dreamed she was locked in a cell, her upper body pressed to a stinking cot while a devil rutted her painfully. Beyond the bars, masses of Alphas watched and waited. Their faces contorted, they snarled and snapped, reaching through the metal bars, stretching inhumanly until they could almost touch her.
Claire did not want to think of the Undercroft, of the things that were locked in it, but the feelings of the dream seemed to linger like a stain even a scalding shower could not wash off.
She turned off the water, combed her hair before the foggy glass, and felt the woman in the blurred reflection was a ghost.
Shutting off the light, she went back into the main room of her cage and found Shepherd had created daytime by switching on every light. Once she was clothed, he left to retrieve her food. Her paints had been cleaned up days ago, his ejaculate from the floor as well, but the portrait remained on the table. She was not exactly sure why he had left it there, and she had tried to ignore it as she ignored him, but it seemed the incorrect eyes were always watching her.
Studying the thing, the rugged face of the man who hurt so many people, she could not find what about the painting had seemed to please him. Of course, she may have completely misread his reaction—the Alpha was layered in half-truths, and had no qualms about deceit if it meant he would attain his goal. But something in the cord, something on his end, had been so very satisfied at what she'd done.
Claire had wanted a reaction, she had got one. Now she had no idea what it meant or how to use it.
Absorbed in the flawed eyes, she listed the mistakes in her rendition. They were not hard enough; the silver did not hold back a tidal wave of twisted history. Shepherd just looked like a man. And how would she look if someone were to paint her? Would it be the ghostly blurred image from the mirror, or somebody completely different? Had her eyes become infected with the same thing that lingered in his?
How much time would it take for her to wake up and no longer care about the forty-three lives he held over her head, or the millions in Thólos she had to find a way to fight for? Why had she not just stomped her foot against the ice and cracked it so powerfully that they both were sucked under?
Her slender hold on composure began to slip just as the bolt on the door hissed its metallic warning Shepherd had returned. Quickly scrubbing her face of tears, Claire sat straight and prepared for the next round.
The man came in with a tray and set it down before her, noticing the redness around the eyes of the woman sitting ramrod straight.