The usherings, ten maybe twenty times over the course of his knot, drew up his balls, scratching at his spine to spurt down the satiated length of his cock as each one possessed him. He squeezed her with each one, growled should she think to move or resist.

  Sometime later he woke from the madness, found her lying limp, staring vacantly forward under his weight.

  He brushed back her hair, satisfied and eager to cuddle his prize. “It won’t always be this way. I will learn to be gentle with you despite my need, mon chou.”

  Blinking once, Brenya murmured, “You must tell Ancil I obeyed his order. Please don’t let him harm Annette further.”

  10

  “What?”

  There were still tremors in her belly, Brenya unsure if they came from her or that thing with its repetitive bursts of fluid still jammed inside her.

  It was done. The little death had taken her. An Alpha knot had been made to fit inside her.

  And yet she was alive, her racing heart proof her body persisted.

  “I asked you a question, Brenya. Why would you say that?” He seemed startled… perhaps even gravely disappointed?

  Turning her chin as far as her neck might allow, she viewed him over her shoulder, saw the damage done to his face, and asked, “Did Ancil strike you as well?”

  Tone hard and deadly deep, Jacques demanded, “Did Ancil lay his hands on you?”

  She put her cheek back to the mattress and sighed. “He was so angry when he took Annette away. He hit her, threatened her. I tried to stop him. After they were gone I worked up the courage to follow, but there are many Alphas blocking the door.”

  The sounds of his irritation grew. “You are not restricted to these rooms, Brenya. You may explore Central at any time you wish, so long as your guard accompanies you. They are there to keep you safe.”

  “I waited for hours…” A wave of sadness deadened her voice. “There was nothing else I could do to help her. So, please, contact him and tell him I obeyed. Don’t have her terminated because of the letter. I need to know she’s safe.”

  He ignored her less than subtle accusation that he might have his childhood friend killed, assuring, “Annette is in no danger, I promise you that. Her father is the Finance Secretary and her mother Matron of the Arts. They would take Ancil to court over the smallest of infractions. Furthermore, Ancil has been in physical training with me for the last several hours.” Jacques spoke softly, brushing his fingertips back and forth over her cheek. “You see, Annette went into labor. She’ll be separated from him until her son is born and kept in confinement for weeks afterward.”

  None of his soft spoken replies lessened her anxiety. “And then? What’s to stop him from hurting her then? Please tell him immediately that I submitted… tell him I begged you.”

  The male sighed, his breath warm on her ear. “Ancil has a way of motivating people to the outcomes he desires. The Dome is his first priority, his duty. Your reticence and my indulgence of your fears had unbalanced the powers that be, putting us all in danger. His actions in inspiring your complicity… were unscrupulous, but it is done now. It would be best not to mention it.”

  Jacques tried to explain it away, to justify an Alpha’s brutality toward his pregnant wife, and it made Brenya feel cold and completely unsafe. “He used me. He used her… terrorized her.” It was the only word she could think of, but not nearly the castigation deserved. “Centrists are bad.”

  “Politics are complicated and seldom pretty. Annette understands, someday you will too.” Tightening his arms around her, the male swore, “I would never strike you in anger, Brenya.”

  His knot was still in her and she wanted it out. She wanted whatever he had spilled inside her washed away. When the base of his cock started to contract and a river of their fluids rushed from her, Brenya let out a sigh of relief, then a squeal of revulsion when Jacques scooped it into his palm and held it to her lips.

  “Drink it.”

  Don’t run. Don’t fight him. Maybe he’ll grow bored.

  Parting her lips, Brenya heeded Annette’s advice and swallowed the sweet mixture down. When he pulled out and rolled her to her back, when he began to massage his semen into her belly and mound, she submitted. When he told her he loved her and that he would always take care of her, she nodded as if in agreement.

  And then he held her tight, and she did find a trace of comfort in his strength… until he grew hard again and took her face to face, eyes open, watching her as he conquered her body and bent it to his whims.

  It was a smooth entry, the male focused on her reaction. When her lips parted on a quick intake of air as he pressed in deep, he praised her. When a tiny coo left her throat at his slow, rolling retreat, he called her beautiful.

  In and out, slow and easy.

  There was slick enough from when he had fucked her from behind, so much under her hips that the wet noises of their joining blended with sighs to make obscene music. He was on his knees between her spread legs, her body in view and angled so he might tempt the hidden nerves of her sex like a true lecher.

  He knew how to draw out her need, how to stoke it and tease. Rolling a tight nipple between forefinger and thumb, Jacques could make her come. Tapping her clit in an uneven rhythm distracting enough to confuse the senses, make her insides squirm, but holding her just short of release.

  When he took her by the neck, lightly wrapping his fingers around the front of her throat, something in Brenya faded far away.

  The new Brenya came forward, gripping the wrist of her Alpha as her hips bucked. She was so close, so very close to forgetting why the beautiful male pleasuring her was bad.

  A part of her psyche whispered to her that even though it was his hands on her throat, she had all the power. She could make him come at will, force his body to satisfy her.

  Her eyes traveled from his smirking face, over a muscled chest, a defined torso, to where his jutting length eased in and out of her body. The veins throbbed at its base in preparation of a new knot. To see it begin, to know that menacing, bulbous organ would jam deep inside her and keep them locked sent her over the edge.

  She came, tightening her cunt to the point the male had no choice but to respond. Expanding knot pushed past her opening, the Alpha grimaced, unable to hold back sounds of ecstasy.

  They were in harmony, the mating high’s influence total.

  Wrapping her ankles around his waist, she pulled his hips closer, angled her pelvis to stimulate the place inside her that refused to stop pulsating, and took every drop of semen her body might squeeze from his.

  He fought to speak past his release, the fingers around her neck fluttering before he might squeeze too tight. “Good girl. You, my dear Brenya, are a very good girl.”

  He pet her through the extended length of the knot, eased her into sleep, and woke her by licking the used place between her legs clean.

  And then he took her again.

  The Greth transport ship landed while Commodore Jacques Bernard was indisposed. A blue-eyed Beta stepped from the gangplank to be greeted by Bernard Dome’s Security Advisor, the Commodore’s Cabinet a distance off. When those persons offered by Greth Dome in trade descended behind the Ambassador, Ancil took a deep breath, forgetting all protocol to step forward and seize a pretty black-haired female. A moment later, the Security Advisor raced inside the palace, an estrous high Omega in his arms.

  The Beta Ambassador in question stood composed despite the tableau.

  He introduced himself as Jules Havel, Ambassador of Queen Svana and her mate Chancellor O’Donnell.

  11

  Greth Dome

  What once had been a grim bunker was now light-drenched rooms, spacious, each corner filled with items Claire was certain Shepherd had little to no interest in—unless he saw her interest. If she touched something, he seemed to memorize the movement, looking to see if she admired or disliked.

  In this home, there was a rotation of experiences, objects, sensations… crafted environments.

  Those first days, things vanished, paintings on the walls replaced, or a rug shifted so subtly she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. A chair was added near a window she preferred to stand beside. Flower-filled urns waited by the bath, bright and fragrant and so very different than the blooms she’d seen in Thólos.

  She didn’t understand the effort behind Shepherd’s silent undertaking. Mostly it made her feel like a bug in a jar, the way he watched, the way he read into every breath she took.

  Unsure if he was waiting for some confirmation of effort, she thought to appease him. Claire ran a hand over the Oriental rug she lounged on. “This is very pretty.”

  She wasn’t facing him, could not see his reaction to her words, and wondered why she didn’t turn her head.

  Her last hour had been spent flipping through an item he had never allowed her before: a personal COMscreen. She was learning of Greth Dome… or at least learning of the things Shepherd had prepared for her attention and education.

  The language was unknown to her, translations listed beside bright stories, entertaining bits of cultural information, a catalogue of local art, of fashion, of food.

  As she read, she could feel his eyes on the back of her head—feel the way he leaned on the link to see inside her.

  “You are very pretty, little one. Much prettier than the rug.”

  On that point, they would have to disagree. She may have been pretty once. A great deal of surgery and scars had changed that. The worst damage was hidden by her clothing, but under her dress, they were still there.

  They would always be there.

  She wished he’d stop acting like he could not see them. It was not natural for Shepherd to be so… blind.

  If she shifted back an inch or two, her head could rest on his knee. She could touch him and forget how she felt. She could take his feelings as her own and forget.

  Claire was tempted, knowing he’d immediately thread his fingers in her hair. But that was not what Shepherd wanted; he wanted her to look at him.

  He didn’t need to say it. She could feel it.

  Hesitating, her attention turned to the window instead. The sun was setting. It had been a beautiful day: her private veranda full of plants, a tall wall surrounding her garden. Her house. Her things. That’s what Shepherd called them. But they were all too foreign to feel like they belonged to her.

  It was too much like the North Wing with its paned windows, paneled walls, and fine furnishings—with its regiment, and medications.

  This home was an anomaly, one where she never saw another soul aside from Shepherd. Whoever cleaned, whoever tended the restocking necessities, Claire could only imagine. Her meals were still prepared by some unseen chef, and brought to her by her mate. Rich food, with heavy sauces, just like he’d fed her when he’d stolen her from the Citadel—when she’d been hardly more than bones. As if their ritual had never altered, he sat with her as she ate, only now, he talked to her.

  Shepherd had adapted, curbing his need to force compliance to instead coerce by asking questions. “Why won’t you look at me, Claire?”

  The purr, the stroke down her hair, and Claire felt her lips form a smile before stifled emotions caught up.

  Peeking over her shoulder, turning to rest her cheek on his knee, she gave Shepherd all her attention. Green eyes, soft, ran over the man—his pressed shirt, starched slacks, clean shaven cheek. It was ironic to see him dressed so formally. She stroked his ankle, feeling the wool socks and polished shoes, remembering a time he’d only ever worn combat boots. “I should paint you again.”

  The way the skin beside his eyes crinkled set her heart racing.

  “If you like.”

  Draping herself against a thick leg, Claire hummed. “I could paint you with my eyes closed.”

  “I have seen photographs of your bedroom wall within the North Wing.” His finger traced over her lips. “I was very flattered, little one.”

  The memorial wall papered with watercolors of silver eyes in every expression beside her bed, mention of it took her smile away. An imagining of her dead son had been on that wall.

  The man sitting on the fine couch purred louder. Not only because of the sharp stab of sorrow that altered her expression, but because there was something at his end of the link he was trying to conceal from her.

  Shepherd remained steady while she was still unstable. He did everything in his power to maintain a front, but she could see the gnawing guilt scratched on his soul. Even more, she felt the memory of his intense loneliness.

  She had mourned, and he had borne it from this great distance, all the while building this new life for her.

  “Was it hard for you?” She wasn’t sure why she’d asked. She was not sure she wanted to know.

  He frowned, agitated even if offering a stoic exterior. “Being separated from you was necessary. You required extreme medical attention I could not provide, nor would you have survived the flight. I did what was best for you no matter my”—he seemed at a loss to find the word—“discomfort.”

  Claire understood. Shepherd had sacrificed his wellbeing. He’d had only a strained link, and it had been his turn to relentlessly pace—as she had once paced—because he had to so he might keep from going mad in this fine house.

  Had he heard her voice? In moments of madness, had he searched room to room as if he might find her?

  Did he dream of her every night, or had he suffered nightmares as she did? Had his years in the Undercroft seemed a haven in comparison?

  The Omega nestled closer, shut her eyes so she might enjoy the tug of his fingers in her hair.

  She was supposed to be happy now. She was supposed to pretend. This house was hers. Outside was a verdant terrace garden surrounded by high walls waiting for her admiration. Green dresses he’d chosen hung in her closet. Rooms full of distractions waiting to tempt her.

  She could play the contented kitten, and she did. But in moments like these, she did her best not to meet his eyes. Her acting was abysmal, and they both knew it.

  The silver saw everything: his skeletal mate, the dark marks under her eyes, the way her hands shook. He saw further than nails she’d chewed to stubs. And still he pretended not to see her scars.

  It’s like he wanted to only look at her, and not the history written on her skin.

  Claire knew what he was about. In Thólos, he’d manipulated and forced her into physical health. He thought to do it again. Maybe his will was strong enough to achieve his goal.

  Hers was not.

  “You want me to tell you I love you,” Claire sighed against his thigh, knowing how to soothe the sharp concern Shepherd tried, and failed, to hide in the bond. “I do.”

  “Do you?” Reaching down, Shepherd pulled her to fit on his lap, a pleased growl offered when she nosed his neck. “Clever little one, do not think I’ll let you off with flattery and sweet words. You promised to walk with me outside. Don’t nap too long.”

  12

  Nestled deep under the covers, Claire woke alone. She knew that if she stepped out of the nest, if she tiptoed to the window, she would find him. Whatever mess she had made of the garden the previous day, he tried to repair while she slept, uprooting plants she’d over-pruned and replacing them, as if his mate wouldn’t notice.

  It was sweet, in Shepherd’s strange way. It was also true that if he didn’t put in the secret effort, everything would have died weeks ago.

  Once, she had once told him she wanted a garden, windows too.

  Now she had both.

  He had made his own promises, ones she wanted nothing to do with: a grand new world.

  Claire, what happened in Thólos?

  It was the same question every day. This grand new world, if it even existed, was unknown to her. Much of the last year within the North Wing was a blur, what happened before a nightmare, and its toll had been taken.

  She wasn’t Claire O’Donnell anymore.

  The venue had changed from North Wing to Greth Dome, but the schedule remained the same: medication, therapy, painting, music.

  A beautiful piano was downstairs, a black grand she could play in the sunlight while surrounded by a view of beautiful plants. But she was only allowed to play after she answered the question: what happened in Thólos?

  Everyone around her knew what had happened in Thólos. Dr. Osin knew. Though Claire had never seen her there, the old woman’s accent was her own.

  It was insulting that she had to sit across from the unwelcome female and face that question morning, noon, and night.

  Her psychiatrist’s hair was almost white, steely, her form wiry and strong. There was nothing soft about Dr. Osin—she was a Follower, after all. One, Claire was certain, must resent the assignment of tending to their leader’s broken mate.

  “What happened in Thólos, Claire?”

  “A lot of people died.”

  “Who killed them?”

  “I did.”

  “Because of this?” A flyer bearing her naked image, aged and creased, was slid across the coffee table between them.

  Claire didn’t want to touch it, was certain she was going to be sick. “I hate Thólos.” Her throat was tight, the space behind her eyes burned. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  Dr. Osin never cut her slack. “What happened in Thólos, Claire?”

  That question made her heart clench, it made the thought of food horrid. Anxiety, panic—more than the sedatives could manage—would hit her hard every single time she heard it.

  She had to give an answer or the doctor would keep asking. She had to offer something or the torment would continue.

  Small voice replied, “Nothing good happened in Thólos.”

  The notepad was set aside. “We will continue tomorrow.”

  But it wasn’t just tomorrow, it was every day.

  Claire pulled the covers from her head, unwilling to lie there any longer. The comfort of the nest was not enough if Shepherd was not in it to cuddle with. The only safe place to be was wherever he was.