Candles flickered, casting soft light that warmed the evening air.

  Not that the courtyard needed warmth. Greth Dome was downright balmy, sticky-hot with the season as if the sweltering temperatures of the jungle seeped in—just as snow had once seeped into Thólos.

  Yet it was always darker in this new place.

  Endless fields of glittering white had made the sun shine so brightly in Thólos’s eternal winter. Sometimes… it had been blinding.

  Greth was softer on the eyes, despite the bright colors favored by its people. It felt like a place one could hide.

  “Little one, where would you like to sit?”

  Speechless, aware of the irony, considering it had been her decision to contact Dr. Osin and order the event, Claire didn’t even know where to begin.

  Her husband had planned this down to the last twinkling bulb. She couldn’t pretend it was not extremely pretty and very sweet.

  “I think I’d like to stand.” Claire took a sip of the drink in her hand, pulling back from the coupe with a look. “This has alcohol.”

  He nodded. “It’s a local drink, a Caipirinha, with muddled strawberries.”

  Tongue tracing a bottom lip sweetened by sugar, Claire admitted, “I can’t even remember the last time I had a cocktail in public.”

  All male, grumbly with the pleasure of seeing his female enjoy herself, her husband swelled with pride. So much so, he might actually burst out of his shirt.

  Teasing, she held the drink up in offer. “Want to try it?”

  “Yes.” Shepherd fell upon her, taking her lips to suck them clean and then delving deeper to capture every last trace of sugar.

  He kissed her as if he didn’t care who might see or how vulnerable they might be when distracted. And then he kissed her some more.

  Bending her back with the heat of his kiss, he drank deep—filled her with breath when she gasped for air and invaded her mouth with his tongue.

  Claire… had never been kissed in public. Modest and blushing when he pulled back to take the drink from her hands and swallow.

  Suddenly shy, she glanced at the party of strangers to see who might be watching. “I feel like I’m being courted.”

  “Hmm.” The man who had woken in her perfect nest and drank his gross dinner grinned.

  Shepherd grinned.

  Fanning her face, she said, “Stop that! You’re making me nervous.”

  “I love you, little one.”

  Rubbing at her breastbone, Claire offered a very distracted reply. “Yeah, yeah, I love you too. But please stop that. It’s not safe.”

  Because if she dripped slick, terrible things would follow. An Omega could never, ever, be aroused in public. She had not committed to this to inspire a bloodbath.

  “Claire.”

  She’d heard him speak, but she was still checking every corner, praying nothing might drip from her vagina to scent the gusset of her panties.

  “Claire,” Shepherd called to her with more force. “Take a deep breath.”

  She did on command, not that she would do anything else.

  “You are safe.”

  Panting, already pulling away, she said, “I think we should leave.”

  “Take another deep breath.”

  Was he out of his mind? They were outside. In a courtyard. All courtyards in Thólos had been brimming with decomposing corpses. Bodies would have been swinging from the pretty trees. “Will you please stop!”

  He would never stop. “One more breath. Hold it and count to six.”

  Tears were running down her face, Claire not even sure why. “Gods, Shepherd. We have to go home⁠—”

  “Please don’t be afraid. The other women here will look to you, and they are frightened too.”

  Unable to bring herself to glance beyond the hands pressed to her face, Claire sobbed.

  How had she become this pathetic woman? This frightened rabbit who jumped every time a glass clinked or soft laughter filled the air?

  What happened to the woman who had trimmed her hair, who had styled it similar to a fashion she had seen on her COMscreen?

  What happened to the fierce mother of Collin who had survived Thólos?

  A strong hand came to rub her shaking shoulder. “You’re doing well, little one.”

  Embraced in the massive arms of her mate, she ruined the front of his pressed shirt. Not that he would ever care. Shepherd just purred for her. He gave her time.

  When the panic began to pass, she pulled away, embarrassed and certain she would never leave her house again.

  But a smiling older Omega pressed a fresh drink to her hand, kissing her on both cheeks in a style Claire had only seen in the programs on her COM.

  And Shepherd had let her.

  Hand shaking so hard the ice hit the sides of the glass, Claire took a sip.

  It did taste like strawberries.

  And sugar.

  Lime.

  And a sort of liquor that had never slipped over her tongue before.

  Huge thumbs swiped over pink cheeks, Shepherd praising her bravery and unabashed about how loudly he did so.

  The shift was not immediate, but it was measurable.

  Feeling came back to her fingers, then her legs. Thankfully, her dress left her arms and back bare, her sweat hardly making a mark.

  Staring up at a man who could exercise remarkable kindness, Claire whispered, “You need a haircut.”

  And they laughed.

  Because he had seen the tufts of black hair she had left all over their bathroom floor.

  Slate-gray, iron-gray, the gray of a freshly polished silver, the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen—he who stood amongst the social gathering, dressed like a regular man, asked, “Are you ready?”

  Heart pounding so hard it hurt, Claire swallowed down another sip of sweetness, quoting Sun Tzu, “Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all I can?”

  “Yes, Claire.” Stroking his hand down her spine as he turned her toward the sparkling courtyard, he said, “That is why I fear you above all others.”

  Pulling a face, she grumbled, “You’re not funny.”

  “You think I am funny.”

  Smirking, she took another step over cobblestones and moved nearer where other couples were engaged in their own conversations. Then it sank bone-deep. Shepherd won every war he’d ever waged.

  Thólos fell. It ate itself just like he’d wanted it to. Greth now belonged to him.

  What would he have done to this place if he had found no Omega mate in Thólos?

  What would he have done to the world had they never met?

  If Svana had....

  He certainly would not have filled courtyards with happy people and the sweet smell of freshly baked things. There wouldn’t be pink drinks. The man didn’t care if the air were chilled or balmy, if the music were vibrant or morose. He would never care for the taste of good food unless she held up her fork and offered him a bite from her plate.

  Shepherd craved only her.

  Moreover, the villain would never deny it.

  Patient, utterly still, Shepherd allowed Claire to stare at him in full understanding, purring as if he knew she finally realized her place in the world. Yet the almost unbearable weight of his silver eyes said, You love me, and there is no undoing it. I love you so fiercely you will never be free of me.

  “Shepherd…” Swallowing, her mouth suddenly dry, Claire tried to find the words. “The responsibility of containing you is more than I can handle right now.”

  Unmoved, he offered a simple smile.

  Where other breathing humans could see.

  Gulping at her drink, Claire gawked at him over her glass.

  “The woman in the striped dress,” Shepherd began. “Her name is Regina. The man speaking to her is Phillipe. After his arrest five years ago, she was locked in a brothel frequented by powerful men. When Thólos fell, he climbed free of the Undercroft, found her, and then went on a rampage to kill every man whose name was on the books for having rented his mate.”

  Green eyes observed the distant couple, who spoke with smiles, sipping their drinks. They looked happy.

  Her mate looked every bit the jaded, scarred, and marked Follower. A killer. Yet it seemed it was she who offered comfort by leading the interaction, by gently touching his arm.

  As if being here was difficult for him and necessary for her. Like Shepherd, he didn’t want his mate out of his immediate eye line but wanted to give her this.

  A simple movie with others. An opportunity for... normal.

  For a woman who had long suffered what Claire had only known for one horrendous day.

  Nearer a planter blooming with red poppies and vaulted by a pretty fruit tree, a reticent female stared anywhere but at the decidedly unattractive face of the Alpha at her side.

  Claire asked, “Who is that?”

  “Guadalupe. Newly mated and frightened.” Shepherd put an arm around Claire so they might observe together. “I have known her Alpha for twenty years. You will not find a better man.”

  That remained to be seen.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Shepherd added, “Peter is madly in love. Has been from the first time he saw her in the market. He courted, offered, and won.”

  “Won?”

  “Her bond.” Said with such innocence, it was clearly pure bullshit.

  Warning him with a tone that brooked no refusal, she growled, “Shepherd….”

  “Ask her yourself if you desire the details.”

  Now, he was starting to piss her off. “I can smell her fear from here.”

  “She can smell yours as well.”

  The nest she had built for him, she was going to rip it apart herself once they got home. “You think it’s funny to parade rape in front of me?”

  “I think you should get to know Peter before you judge him by his face.” After audibly cracking his neck, Shepherd added, “And if you are feeling magnanimous, you should get to know Guadalupe as well.”

  There was no reason to keep her voice down. “You are trying to pin the problems of your inept Followers on me!”

  Shepherd, patient and gentle, cuddled her closer. “I am trying to entice you to teach me what is to be done when watching a film. I have never seen one in a public setting before.”

  Instant guilt laced with extreme suspicion caused her to mutter, “Honey, if you want a normal experience, don’t title the mission Project Baker.”

  “Noted.”

  “I can’t help your Followers,” Claire added, just to make sure he understood that she was going to return home when this was done and burrow.

  Relaxed and well rested, Shepherd replied, “Guadalupe has studied horticulture her whole life. She is coming to plan the new layout for the orange trees I have prepared for your garden.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  With a smirk, he pulled her closer. “Shush. The movie is starting.”

  23

  BERNARD DOME

  Fingertips to the windowsill, Brenya explored the red-stained wood. Pockmarks from age rough under her touch—and there, in scratches and chipped paint, the telltale signs others had lived in this strange room before her. One corner even boasted scaring around the massive wall of windows as if someone had tried but failed to pry them open. Notches where there had been frustration, or force, or maybe even accidental brushes with something that indented the wood forever.

  A story of frustrations, of explorations, of random life events.

  Of time.

  This room, with its fresh, blood-stained hue, felt ancient.

  Living in it felt like stepping back in time, or maybe even an alternate universe. In the Red Room, there was no pain.

  Not after that first night.

  In the Red Room, her body had healed until not so much as a fading bruise was left to tell the story of what Jacques Bernard had done to her.

  In the Red Room, there was confusion, strange physical frustrations, patience, silence, learning, adaptation, and nervous glances.

  The Beta, her husband, focused on his work through strange COM units. A man of few words, he only spoke when he had something worth saying. A stark opposition to Jacques's endless babble.

  Within her, his black lake, his vast ocean, lapped at the shore of her island of light. Surrounded, enclosed in his cavernous self, she grew comfortable, engulfed as she was.

  But Brenya never trusted what occasionally stirred up the depths of his mirror-like internal stillness.

  A whisper told her not to trust this man, this murderer, with his emotionless expressions and his monotone, soothing words.

  He had promised to hurt her. He held her people hostage.

  And he spoke to her across the room as if none of those looming threats existed. “You are to escort me to Beta Sector today, Brenya. I would like a tour and full accounting of Palo Corps.”

  Nodding, her gaze still memorizing the notches in the wood, Brenya replied, “Yes, Commodore.”

  The idea of seeing her sisters, of visiting her home, brought with it a shimmer of fluttering excitement she knew he could see within her. He could see everything if she was not careful.

  And it seemed he wished to feed that reaction, the waves within him creeping up a little higher upon her shore. “I have an update on Annette and her son. They have transitioned out of quarantine and taken a residence inside the palace, where she will be taught the language so she might serve Greth Dome as a Cultural Ambassador.”

  Brenya could not resist the instinctual smile and warmness in her heart. They were giving her friend an important position, not treating her as a burden or hostage.

  Strong emotion, she was learning in the Red Room, was not always bad.

  Shy of the man, Brenya turned just enough so she might glance over her shoulder to where he lounged in their bed. Peeking at the Beta through her fall of hair, she found he did not stare at her as Jacques would have done.

  Eyes to his screen, Jules Havel did not steal her smile away.

  So, she dared share an opinion. “Annette is very suited to the position.” Strange warmth moved through Brenya’s chest at the idea of Annette hosting tea to these new people. Knowing her kind friend was safe from all the ugliness of Bernard Dome. “She will be an excellent Ambassador. You won’t be disappointed; you have my word.”

  Curious about him, she watched where he worked from the bed… as he did most mornings. Familiar with the sight of him, with the soft scent that filled the room, with the way he rested his COM unit on his lap and was always dressed in black.

  Pleasure was found in observing when he allowed it. When he kept his gaze averted so she might not immediately look away.

  Eyes to his screen, an unaffected male voice asked, “Would you like to hear an update about George as well?”

  The warmth was sucked right out of her, ice splashing through Brenya’s veins. It could not be helped, the knots in her stomach to hear that name. The bravado of the night she’d asked Shepherd to take him, to get him away from Jacques forever, had faded when her adrenalin ran dry. As if Jacques was in the room, as if he listened, as if he would make her pay for so much as thinking of her friend, Brenya felt cold sweat turn her scent sour.

  It was a test—she knew it was—to see if she would say his forbidden name.

  The Beta expected it, pried it from her lips, made her feel all the ugliness her body forced on her each time her former tech was brought up.

  Voice soft, Brenya gave her new master what he wished. “I would like to hear about George Gerard.”

  And no blow came to land. Jacques did not storm through the door to shake her, to bend her over and force his way inside her body. He did not so much as twitch in their bond… not with that black ocean surrounding her.

  Not so long as Jules Havel chose to keep her safe from him.

  His dark presence engulfed her little island now, indomitable nothingness that kept her safe from a whispering Alpha unable to reach her across the void.

  Jacques Bernard and his emotional manipulation had been forced away. And it had been weeks since he’d been allowed to take a mental taste of her.

  There was no jealousy in Jules’s voice when it came to the name George. No ripple in the vast ocean inside the Beta. “Your friend is still suffering withdrawal, but there is improvement.”

  “It is very difficult to experience life without Beta rations.” The craving might always be there, not that it consumed Brenya as it once had.

  Life was easier when emotions were muted.

  As if he had not been tripping her up with weeks’ worth of difficult scenarios, Jules Havel called from where he worked, “If Beta rations were offered to you, would you eat them?”

  A trick question that had no right answer. But a response was expected, so she told the truth. “Not today.”

  “Hmm.” He seemed pleased by her response. “Attend to your nest, Brenya.”

  An order to come to the bed, to approach near him but not touch.

  She had made that mistake only once. Touching Jules disturbed his ocean and earned his anger.

  Bare feet padding over red floors, the hem of her borrowed shirt brushing her thighs, Brenya obeyed.

  Each night, after she had bathed, he would strip before her, displaying the dark, twisting marks on his chest, his strength, and order her to don his clothing. Still warm from his body, she would pull the fabric over her skin before climbing into bed… alone.

  The used shirts smelled divine, offered her modesty, and were far superior to uncomfortable, hideous white-lace gowns.

  But there was also something very personal in the act of wearing his clothing, something possessive. She wanted to wear his things. Would get edgy with anticipation when it was time for him to pull it from his body and present it to her.

  Should there come a night when he refused her his clothes, she would have to grapple with some difficult sensations. Just the thought of being denied irritated her in a way she could not understand. Frankly, her inner workings were belligerent on the subject. To the point she had even begun taking the old shirts out of the laundry basket where she was expected to put them when she bathed, hiding them under the pillows of her nest, hoarding them like a dragon sleeping atop her treasure.