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.

Studying the thing, the rugged face of the man who hurt so many people, she could not find what about the painting had seemed to please him. Of course, she may have completely misread his reaction—the Alpha was layered in half-truths, and had no qualms about deceit if it meant he would attain his goal. But something in the cord, something on his end, had been so very satisfied at what she’d done.

Claire had wanted a reaction, she had got one. Now she had no idea what it meant or how to use it.

Absorbed in the flawed eyes, she listed the mistakes in her rendition. They were not hard enough; the silver did not hold back a tidal wave of twisted history. Shepherd just looked like a man. And how would she look if someone were to paint her? Would it be the ghostly blurred image from the mirror, or somebody completely different? Had her eyes become infected with the same thing that lingered in his?

How much time would it take for her to wake up and no longer care about the forty-three lives he held over her head, or the millions in Thólos she had to find a way to fight for? Why had she not just stomped her foot against the ice and cracked it so powerfully that they both were sucked under?

Her slender hold on composure began to slip just as the bolt on the door hissed its metallic warning. Shepherd had returned. Quickly scrubbing her face of tears, Claire sat straight and prepared for the next round.

The man came in with a tray and set it down before her, noticing the redness around the eyes of the woman sitting ramrod straight.

When she saw what he had brought her, Claire began to sniff. She reached for a steaming fried potato wedge, dipped it in mayo, then dunked it again in the chocolate shake. Shoving it in her mouth, tears began to fall, her acknowledgment pathetic. “They’re really good.”

“There are no raspberries on premises. They will be acquired shortly,” Shepherd explained, assuming she was, at last, having some sort of pregnancy moment.