There was more. "Our agreement has been fulfilled."
Claire set the cup and saucer on the bedside table, bracing herself. "And the proof?"
Shepherd brought forth his COMscreen. "May only upset you, so I am asking you to trust me and not look at the photographs."
There was no chance in hell Claire would trust such a man. "It could not be any worse than other things I have seen in this city."
She took the COMscreen, snatching it from his hands. The first image had been taken from a distance, all three bodies shown dangling, but not near enough to be graphic. The second was from the same vantage, Shepherd's Followers taking them down. Claire was tempted to stop there, to accept that as good enough, but to do so would be to show weakness in the face of her adversary. Her finger slid across the screen. Bodies side by side in an open grave, rotted faces on display, only pits remaining where eyes had once been. Each corpse was still gagged, shrunken lips exposing teeth, hanging ropes embedded in their necks.
Claire could not look away.
Shepherd gently pried the COMscreen from her hands. "Are you satisfied?"
What she was was incredibly ill. Nodding, her mouth grew sour, Claire sinking deeper into her bed in hopes he'd leave so she could run to the bathroom and puke.
Shepherd knew her every tick, knew she was unwell. Claire could either walk to the bathroom and be sick with dignity, or he was going to get involved, his scowl said as much.
Slipping out of bed, she moved past him, closing the door for privacy, and threw up everything she'd just swallowed, pretty certain it would be some time before she enjoyed a cappuccino again.
He left her in peace, waited for her to wash her face and brush her teeth, and when she came back, Claire began to dress as if nothing had happened.
Brushing her tangled hair, she turned to the man still sitting at the end of the bed. "What would you like me to paint for you?"
He took a contemplative breath, voice almost jovial when he spoke. "A portrait of yourself, little one. One I will appreciate."
With the brush mid-way through a tangle, Claire mused, unsure if Shepherd comprehended how difficult self-portraits would be. "That's out of my scope. It might not be any good."
He flicked his fingers, beckoning her closer. Apprehensive that she would be expected to perform the other requirement of their agreement at that very moment, Claire stiffened, but went to him.
Taking the brush from her hands, he set it aside and pulled her to rest on his knee. "I want you to sing for me now."
"I already sang for you."
The man smirked, sly as he spoke, "Our agreement did not stipulate a number of times. You simply said you would sing for me, and I desire you to do so again."
Claire suspected it was far more for her benefit than his, a distraction that would shift her thinking in a more settling direction. "If you set this precedent and begin bending the rules, it's only going to backfire eventually."
He touched a finger to her nose; Shepherd squinted, and the man cooed, "Please."
She sang the first thing that came to mind, a relic anthem about war… a song that was poignant, sad, and far too expressive of the plight of Thólos.
"Do you still feel ill?" Shepherd asked, aware of her little musical mutiny as he gently touched her belly.
Claire did not usually feel well upon waking, especially after being dragged out of bed to see pictures of victims Shepherd had murdered, and she told him so.
"The punishment meted out to those women was earned." The man was unmoved by her declaration. "If your death would have brought them gain, they would not have hesitated to kill you. You were kind enough to see them buried. Do not mourn them further."
"Do you not wish to be mourned when you die?" Claire asked, non-threatening, only interested in his answer.
Stroking over the baby, the tiny thing that had yet to distort her figure, Shepherd asked, "Would you not mourn me, little one? Or would you relish the death of your mate?"
Claire was not inhuman. She had natural feelings and felt a discord in the link, the sudden uneasy throb in her chest that seemed saddened by the mere thought of the bearer of the bond's death. Deeper still, she suspected his death would not equate to her freedom—too much had been done. She would languish as she had when the bond had been damaged. She would die. Unsure how to answer his question, she rubbed her hand over her face and refused to respond.
"The thought upsets you." Again it was the gentle, manipulative voice and the soft touches of a man she knew pretended to be something he was not. "You need not fear. You would always be cared for."