When he had called her to him, when she had, in a dreamlike daze, walked through the snow to her vicious mate. He’d pulled her into his arms and carried her to a new land.
Where he was king. There was no war.
To a beautiful home he had prepared for her. And a life he had designed.
She’d been driven into therapy with a crusty old bitch of a female Alpha.
Claire would have been content to dissociate until she died after all Shepherd had put her through—intentional or not. He was the villain in her story, and the most dedicated mate imaginable.
Who forced her to confront her trauma.
Who grieved beside her.
A man she loved. Who pushed her… always. Because he loved her.
Claire had done the work, perhaps unwillingly at first, but she had slowly gotten better. Understood now that recovery was a lifelong endeavor.
That he wouldnotlet her fail. That she did want to be happy.
But she refused to be deluded in order to pretend everything was fine.
Hated therapy. Loathed Dr. Osin. Sometimes she broke things. Raged. Wept. But she had slowly faced what had happened in Thólos.
And Collin.
Her little boy. Dead.
She had been raped.
Everyone she knew was dead or would die.
And those feelings—the shame, the terror, the grief—hit her hard every time there was a taste of threat. A hint that something wasn’t right.
As if she were living in Thólos all over again.
Her husband leaving their nest mid-knot? The panic had her by the throat before he’d even shut the front door.
He’d known, and he’d gone anyway.
Instead of pacing and pulling at her hair as she would have when she’d been trapped in his underground bunker, she practiced those skills Dr. Osin had drilled into her mind. Found three things to look at and name. Felt three things. Listened for three things.
And gave a limbic brain a chance to recognize she was safe.
In her comfortable home, with windows… with a view.
This was not simple. Nor was it easy.
But it did work.
She thought of Shepherd, of how much she loved him… and could even admit to herself that sometimes she hated him too.
Peeling herself off the damp sheets to clean and repair her nest for his return. For her comfort. For the necessity of a task when her mind wanted to catastrophize.
It was not her best work. Shaking hands and shallow breath, a lack of attention to deep detail. But it was still lovely. Soft. Inviting. Scented of unfinished sex and the promise of an attentive lover.
Because he would come home. He would.
He always did.
