Page 40 of Born to be Broken

Surprised he was engaging, even if he was not looking at her, she grumbled, “Not well enough if I’m back here.”

The male did not respond, simply walked towards the door.

From her lips came a name synonymous with Satan in her mind. “Svana. That woman will ruin you all… You know that.”

The man halted and turned his head enough so that she might see his profile. “It would be wise for you to choose your topics of conversation with greater restraint.”

Claire scoffed and looked at the suddenly still Beta. “You follow a madwoman.”

“I follow Shepherd.”

Claire actually smiled, a little wicked, and laughed at the man. “And he loves her. Your point is invalid.”

“The future is what matters, and your ignorant opinion matters little.”

“A fact of which I am well aware.”

At the door, he spoke over his shoulder. “Do not measure your worth by one minor success, Miss O’Donnell.”

“I agree. I measure it by my countless failures instead.”

“You fight for what you believe in, yet when you grew fragile, your answer was to seek out a meaningless death. Mine is to spend what years I have left working for a greater purpose. I will see the world altered, improved. You and I are not that different. I simply chose to be stronger and was willing to pay the price to enact change.”

She had no idea where the words were coming from or why they seemed so important. “Your logic is corrupted. I chose to die before I became like you. That makes me stronger than you are.”

The man faced her one last time, those striking eyes unsettling. “It does not make you stronger. It makes you a coward.”

Claire felt as if he had struck her, the storm in her words unleashing nothing more than a pointless whispering breeze… because there was an undeniable fragment of truth in his words.

There was nothing else to be said between them, the man dismissing her as if she were nothing. The door closed with a thud. She must have stood there for ages, staring at the metal, half numb. Eventually, she moved towards the food, chewed and swallowed with no idea of what she ate, nor did she notice that she did not get sick.

Thinking of that stupid book, The Art of War, of Sun Tzu and all he seemed to have accomplished, Claire remembered: Thus the expert in battle moves the enemy, and is not moved by him.

Jules had just done that to her.

So, how does one move a mountain? Her words were nothing to Shepherd, arguments ended in sex, but her actions had affected him more than once. On occasion she must have caused distraction in his pursuit. The monster even said he loved her, in his own twisted fashion. That gave her influence of a sort, now she just needed to learn how to wield it.

Her green eyes went to the watercolor of poppies still resting against the wall—a mindless project that had once made her cell a little more bearable. The unwelcome cord in her chest pulsed. She needed a reaction, something small, a place to begin.

Absently, she prepared her paints, her mind full of one image, one hard truth. There was no need for much color, the world was nothing but shades of grey under a bruised sky.

9

While still deep in her work, the door’s hinges whined. Claire ignored the giant’s entrance and approach, even his large hand once it rested on the table alongside her painting.

The beast leaned down with a low, displeased growl. “Throw it away.”

Claire was focused on finishing the last details, the little flicks of her brush exaggerating the cracks in the Dome. “Why would I throw it away?”

She had painted her final morning of freedom; the moment denied her out on the ice.

It was stark and horrific in its implication.

His lips were at her ear, his breath fluttering her hair. “Have you done this to upset me, little one?”

The brush tip was dipped again until drenched in black paint. “No.”

She felt his hand gather up her hair so he might pull her head back from where it hung over her project. Shepherd was not hurting her, or yanking, he simply unfolded the Omega, forcing her to meet his narrowed gaze.