He 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 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 him 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. “Honey, if you want a normal experience, don’t title the mission Project Baker.”
“Noted.”
“I can’t help your Followers,” she added, just to make sure he understood that she was going to return home when this was done and burrow.
“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.”
“Shush. The movie is starting.”
22
Bernard Dome
Fingertips to the windowsill, Brenya explored the red-stained wood. There were pock marks from age, telltale signs of who had lived in such a strange room before. Notches where there had been frustration or force or even accidental brushes with something that indented the wood forever. New marks she could account for.
“You are to escort me to Beta Sector today, Brenya. I would like a tour and full accounting of Palo Corps.”
Nodding, her eyes still on the view, Brenya replied, “Yes, Commodore.”
As if he had not been tripping her up with weeks’ worth of difficult scenarios, Jules Havel called from where he worked. “There is an update on the state of Annette. She has transitioned out of quarantine with her son and taken a residence. She has been tasked with educating the population on the culture of Bernard Dome.”
“An Ambassador?” They were giving her friend an important position? Strange warmth moved through Brenya’s chest at the idea of Annette hosting tea to new people. “She will be an excellent Ambassador.”
Jules added further information. “George is still suffering withdrawal. There is no further update on his status.”
There was no jealousy in his voice when it came to the name George. No ripple in the emptiness inside the Beta.
Brenya had no idea what to make of this new Commodore. Found herself frustrated more with his distance than his demands.
Turning to look at the man who chose to work from bed most mornings, using her hair as a shield as if he would not notice her attention, she found the sight growing familiar. Pillows at his back, an unusual COMscreen propped on his lap, he lounged, focused on his work.
Very little that he did made sense.
From that first night in this bed.
The clinical way he had observed and tended her naked flesh. The questions, the strange manipulations down her spine. That he had ordered her to bed, and when she had obeyed, a man who had promised her that Bernard Dome would know no mercy pulled the covers up under her chin and told her in a softer voice to sleep.
After slipping off his coat, he had joined her—trousers on, shirt on—and made no move to touch her as she stared at the carved wooden canopy above.
The cool sheets felt so different from the soppy mess she had left when Lucia had yanked her from her bed. They were smooth, even stiff. A bit musty even.