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.

He was stern as he searched her expression. “You will paint something else.”

Claire set the brush on the table and furrowed her brow. “I like this one.”

“I dislike what it suggests.” He released her hair to take the offensive piece of paper, staring with rancor where Claire had painted her last moments of freedom… only to have changed the story to show the ice cracked open in a gaping hole—alluding that she had fallen through to her death.

“Fine,” Claire challenged him, “I’ll paint you instead.”

Crushing the wet paper in his hands, Shepherd snorted. Once the painting had been thoroughly balled up and ruined, he threw it in the bin, found she still was willingly meeting his gaze, and slowly took the seat across from his mate.

He’d yet to strip off his coat or armor, looking just as he’d looked when Claire had first seen him in the Citadel—namely, intimidating and angry.

The hazy dreamlike high of estrous had made her find him attractive. Seeing Shepherd now, seeing him through her anger, disgust, and the effect of their re-established bond… it was different on every level. Already reaching for a fresh piece of paper, looking objectively at the subject of her nightmares, Claire’s eyes darted over the Da’rin marks creeping up his neck and a lifetime of collected scars.

The silver of his eyes never wavered as he watched her take him in, though they grew a little hard when she squinted and leaned closer. Then her attention went to the paper and, like magic, the lines of his face began to appear.