Page 66 of Born to be Broken

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.

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.

As if he knew she refused to embrace the thought of her son, Shepherd cooed in her ear, “You will love our baby and sing for him, paint him pictures… and he will have dark hair like yours, and maybe your eyes.”

Never once had she allowed herself to picture the child. Hearing so tempting a description, Claire could not stop the image from invading her mind, hating the male who whispered so sweetly for the cruelty of what he was doing in making her son real.

Insistence invaded Shepherd’s attempt at gentle speech. “You don’t have to fight it, Claire. You could forgive me, forgive yourself, and your pain would end. You could do it for your son, so that he need not suffer a disengaged mother as you did.”

Her breath caught, she automatically pressed the keys to hide in her music. Gently, Shepherd took her hands, preventing her attempted distraction until his point was made.

“Have things not improved in these last weeks?” He stroked the trembling Omega; he kissed her neck. “I know it has been painful for you to accept what you have faced between us, what you experienced in Thólos. I also know that you understand my purpose to a point, and though you may not want to admit it, you see how wrong this place is.”

“Please stop…”

“If you wish.”

His acquiescence was unexpected. Claire uncurled, tried to move her arms, and found Shepherd no longer held her from her goal. She began to play again, the melody slow and wretched. As her fingers roamed the keys, she thought of her mother, the woman who’d sat by her side for hours, patiently teaching her child the one thing she’d taken true joy in. It was an act of love Claire had always wanted to share with her own children, part of the fantasy the Omega had envisioned in her perfect future.

Thoughts of her dead mother led to thoughts of her dead father—to the scent of orange blossoms and remembrance of warm sunshine. Her daddy’s laughter had been Claire’s favorite sound in the world.

Another male vaguely reminded her of the man: Corday, with his silly boyish grin, his kindness, his patience.

As if Shepherd knew, as if he could tempt her thoughts back to him, he lifted Claire’s skirt and caressed her thigh. It felt good, the way Shepherd touched. It felt perfectly nice as the music stirred and her attention relaxed to alter tempo in time with the Alpha’s long warm strokes. He grew more daring, and her breath caught when his large fingers explored, teasing in exactly the right spot.

The way he could play her body, the ease with which he parted her folds, how simply her legs spread of their own volition to offer access so he might please her… sometimes it seemed pure. “That’s right, little one.”