Page 70 of Born to be Broken

A deep breath, the type that preceded some grand speech the bastard was going to make, passed Shepherd’s lips. Claire’s eyes shot up, blazing warning as she snarled, “I swear to the Gods, Shepherd, if you say one thing about this painting, I am going to scream.”

Undaunted, he cocked an eyebrow and stated, “I want you to paint yourself smiling more.”

Pounding her fist on the table, biting back the rising noise in her throat, Claire let out a stream of obscenities so vulgar the man began to laugh. Paint-stained hands balled up the picture, Claire throwing it right in his face. Then it was her turn to laugh at the absolute look of murder in his eyes.

Popping her lips, grinning impishly, she reached for another piece of paper and ignored the swelling, angry male. Innocently, she dipped the brush and began the outline again, painting the same smug grin she was wearing at that moment. When the basic form was drawn, she arrogantly held it up, and watched him narrow his eyes and appraise.

Before he could speak, a knock came to the door and a man whose voice Claire didn’t recognize spouted off something in their language. Shepherd’s attention focused on what he was hearing, the Alpha already standing as he replied in kind.

Shepherd immediately began pulling on his armor.

A strange anxiety twisted in her stomach, this situation not having arisen before. Watching him dress for battle at a summons and not simply because he was leaving for the day, meant something was going on—something that could be dangerous to him, to Thólos, to anyone.

“You do not need to be concerned, little one.” There was a smile in his voice.

When Claire’s eyes darted up to meet his, she found him collected and calm. But she felt incredibly uneasy, all humor from only a few moments ago evaporating. “What’s going on?”

The purr began. Shepherd pulled on his coat and came to where she sat, alarmed and stiff. Stroking the line of her jaw, he explained, “There is nothing. I simply lost the hour playing your game with the paints.”

He was lying. The man always knew what time it was without the presence of a clock. “I don’t believe you.”

Ignoring her accusation, he cracked his neck and looked down at his worried mate. “I will be back shortly, and when I return, I expect to receive the remaining portion of our agreement.”

She fought to maintain an impassive expression while Shepherd traced her lips with his thumb and leveled upon her a liquid gaze brimming with lust and ravenous expectation. He dipped his thumb between her lips, growled richly as if he was about to fuck her, and left her sitting in a little pool of slick.

Dazed, Claire stared at the closing door. She knew what he was calling due, what he had left sitting between them for weeks—in order to fulfill their bargain, Claire was expected to initiate sex.

Unsure whether he had chosen that moment as a means to distract her from her worry, or if it was some sort of victory celebration for whatever he was doing, she shifted uncomfortably at being left in such a state.

It was not as if she’d forgotten what she’d offered for Lilian and the others to be laid to rest, but she’d had other far more pressing things to center her thoughts upon. Besides, physical intimacy with Shepherd had taken place countless times. She knew what he liked, where to touch him to draw out a reaction… so how hard could it be to initiate it?

Hard.

Looking for a distraction, Claire showered and cleaned up the paints, expecting him back at any second. But hours passed and she began to grow anxious, worried about what might or might not be going on in Thólos.

Was it an insurrection? Corday—had he found a way to end this?

Claire was on the edge of full-blown panic when the lock finally shifted. Gritty metal whined and the door swung inwards. She stopped her customary pacing, turning with tangled relief to face the largeness of her mate.

15

The severed head of Senator Kantor still lay on the table, wrecked and unmoved from the place it had been dropped once Jules had pulled it from the pike outside the Citadel and brought the repugnant thing to Shepherd. There was no clean cut where neck had been severed from shoulders, just a torn stump of muscle and tendon. Around it lay a splatter of blood, leaking fluids, and the fingers of a man gripping the table so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

Before Shepherd had left, they’d argued, the Alpha’s bulging arms crossed over his chest while he’d stared down his second-in-command. “You went against my orders and killed him while he was still useful to us?”

“No…”

Svana.

She had done this. She had murdered her uncle. Who else could move with the stealth to slip right under the noses of trained Followers? Who else would stick the head on a pike outside the Citadel as if to taunt not only Shepherd but the city she sought to destroy? Who else would gain by this?

It was a delicate thing, tormenting a population just enough to keep them miserable, Shepherd having exercised caution not to press millions past the point of desperation. Hanging a traitor as part of a public trial and execution spread the blame on all who watched. It made the population impotent and held Thólos responsible. This… the Champion of the People and leader of the resistance’s head had been mutilated for show, loudly broadcasting the wrong sentiment.

That was what had earned Shepherd’s anger, not Jules’ accusations that Svana had done this to undermine them all.

Riots had already begun to bloom, Followers acting in mercenary fashion.

Even faced with this kind of proof of Svana’s treachery, Shepherd did not see an imprudent mistake—yes, Svana could be difficult, but she would not break rank, not when she stood to gain the most from their great plan’s success. If she had done this, it had been for good reason.