Page 45 of Born to be Broken

Toying with a strand of Claire’s hair, Shepherd grinned—vindicated, in perfect alignment with the universe, until he heard her call out.

It had been only a little noise in the dark, a voice laced with fear… a call for him to help her.

Mechanically he moved, swift to gather her close. “I am here, little one.”

Shepherd could see she was not quite awake when, instead of tensing up at his touch, she gripped the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer, urging him to surround her in his heat and strength.

Swallowing, trying to catch her breath, Claire tried not to think of the sound of screaming convicts and lingering echoed flashes of men lining up to hurt her in her dream. It had been another horrible nightmare of the Undercroft Shepherd had described from his childhood; a prison that gave birth to monsters, inhabited by demons even Maryanne had once warned still lurked down below.

Brushing the hair from her face, Shepherd encouraged her to calm. “You are allowing your brooding to affect your dreams.”

Claire released her grip on the nightmare-inducing monster at once. “I’m fine.”

“You would not call out for your mate if something had not frightened you.”

Shepherd rolled them, holding her to his chest so Claire might rest atop him as she had slept before the complications of the last few weeks. In that position his vibrations would pass far more noticeably into her, and the hatred in her eyes would go back to the faraway stare of complacence.

“What time is it?”

Shepherd did not let her budge, but answered the question. “A little after 16:00.”

God, she was so tired even after all that sleep. Too tired to protest the thick arms that came to embrace and stroke, feeling guilt she was experiencing comfort from such a thing, she complained, “I hate the hours down here… everything is backwards.”

“If you had slept during the evening instead of fighting the rest you require, then you would have settled into regular rhythms.”

Claire gave an annoyed groan at his pointless lecture. It was his fault she could not sleep, his fault her mind was unstable, his fault she’d had the nightmare, his fault she could feel again and that everything felt horrible. Unsure if she spoke simply to annoy him, or to test him, or because it was what she actually needed, Claire muttered against the fabric of his shirt, “I want to go outside.”

The purring stopped.

A moment of time hung between them, the air tangible with mutual dissatisfaction. Trilling her fingers on his chest, she made it clear she was waiting for an answer and that there was only one right one.

Everything about his reply was displeased and growled with great annoyance. “You will eat and bathe first. After we have mated… I will escort you to see your sky.”

How fucking romantic.

In the mood to continue being difficult, Claire said, “I want to eat fried potatoes with mayonnaise.”

He threaded his fingers in her hair. “No.”

“And a chocolate shake.”

“No.” Shepherd stroked her spine in an attempt to urge her to fall back asleep and forget her expectation of the sky.

“Raspberries, lots of raspberries.”

“That you may have.”

Aware he was trying to make her melt until she forgot her request, and conscious Shepherd was about to achieve his goal, Claire began to wriggle away, stretching like a cat and cracking her spine. He made her work for her escape. Even with his arm just lying across her, the damn thing weighed a ton, and he seemed far more interested in groping her ass than letting her up. In the end, she bit him and slipped out of reach.

Shepherd found it funny.

She moved into the bathroom, ignoring the light laughter coming from the giant splayed on the bed. A long shower that was blissfully alone helped to clear away the remnants of her nightmare. It was not the first time she’d dreamed she was locked in a cell, her upper body pressed to a stinking cot while a devil rutted her painfully. Beyond the bars, masses of Alphas watched and waited. Their faces contorted, they snarled and snapped, reaching through the metal bars, stretching inhumanly until they could almost touch her.

Claire did not want to think of the Undercroft, of the things that were locked in it, but the feelings of the dream seemed to linger like a stain even a scalding shower could not wash off.

She turned off the water, combed her hair before the foggy glass, and felt the woman in the blurred reflection was a ghost.

Shutting off the light, she went back into the main room of her cage and found Shepherd had created daytime by switching on every light. Once she was clothed, he left to retrieve her food. Her paints had been cleaned up days ago, his ejaculate from the floor as well, but the portrait remained on the table. She was not exactly sure why he had left it there, and she had tried to ignore it as she ignored him, but it seemed the incorrect eyes were always watching her.