The brute totally missed the point, completely disregarding her accusation. Grinding her teeth in frustration, Claire buried her head against his chest and tried to pretend Shepherd was not there, that his cock was not growing flaccid inside her, and that the damned hum was not in her chest.
#
It was three days later, at least, she thought it was three days, when Claire woke up to find a large sketchpad, two brushes, and a set of watercolors resting innocently on the bedside table. The new things were like a magnet; she rolled out of bed and snatched them up greedily. Yesterday's dress was pulled over her head and within minutes she was on her belly, legs kicking behind her, the paints mixed, and the beginnings of a view coming alive on the paper.
She spent hours rendering her favorite flowers, the red poppies that bloomed in the Gallery Gardens, drenching them in sunshine under a blue, dome-free sky.
"Your talent is greater than I imagined."
Just about jumping out of her skin, Claire looked over her shoulder, pressed a hand to her heart, and shrieked, "How long have you been there?"
"Long enough," Shepherd answered, already crouched at her side.
Nervous, she scooped up her paints and brushes before the giant stepped on them or got in a mood and took them away. Everything was cleaned in the bathroom sink. When she was done, Shepherd sat on the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, the drying artwork leaning against the wall by the bedside table.
"What time is it?" Claire asked, closing the bathroom door behind her.
He was hunched over, staring at the painting, a strange look in his eye. "The sun is rising."
Edging nearer the display, she reached out a hand to center her work. When she glanced toward the resting behemoth, she found his eyes held a trace of amusement, as if he found her behavior endearing.
Claire took a step back.
"You were going to smile," he grunted, as if he expected her to do so on command.
Green eyes, almost the same shade as the stems of the poppies, turned back to the painting. She knew it made no difference whether she smiled or not. "If I smiled now, I wouldn't mean it."
"You do not like your gifts?"
Hands fisted in the stuff of her skirt, she nodded. "I like the paints; you know that."
Standing, Shepherd moved toward his desk. "Paint another one."
Claire didn't paint, that mood had passed.
Sitting like an overgrown hulk at the small desk, Shepherd accessed his COMscreen and ignored her. Claire began her ritual pacing, a caged animal denied the room to run. Darting a glance at the back of his hated head, she suspected his inattention was some ruse. That at any moment he would turn around and pull out his cock.
But the exclusion continued—as if he were trying to break her down, confuse her... doing it subtly until she just cracked.
Breathing irregularly, her fists clenched in her hair, pulling black locks, she repeated over and over inside her skull. "I am Claire."
"Come here." The order was issued in a moderate voice, Shepherd having not even turned his head in her direction.
The last time she ignored a summons he'd fucked her three times in a row, even as she begged him to stop—left her spent and replete until she could do nothing but lie still and stare at the wall. Moving to stand at his side, her hair wild, Claire did as she was told.
A large hand enveloped the entirety of her hip, pulling her a few inches closer before the mountain turned. "Your brooding is making you upset."
Why was she being reprimanded for having feelings? Normal humans who were not psychopathic murderers had feelings. And normal people did not do well for weeks on end in the same fucking room with only a monster for company!
Working his massive thumb into the hollow below her hip bone, Shepherd took in her disturbed expression. "Sing something for me."
"Uhhh…" What? Sing? Claire did not want to mate, and that was the probable outcome if she refused. Scowling, she rubbed her lips together and tried to slow down her thoughts long enough to think of a song. Nothing came to mind. "What kind of song?"
"Something soothing."
He was trying to get her to self-soothe. Well, he could go fuck himself. After a minute or two of deliberation, with the same steady pressure of his thumb moving against her skin, Claire settled on a well-known ballad older than the time of the domes. It was sappy and portrayed romance in a totally untrue light, but she had always liked it.
Though now she knew better. There was no such thing as true love—of that Claire was certain—only indoctrination, chemicals, and bastards who kept you locked in rooms.
By the time she neared the end, her voice had grown desolate. The brooding had been replaced with despair. There was never going to be a hero. The growing cord of the bond made it clear that she would only ever have the large Alpha seated before her; a man whose face she hated with her whole heart.