When she emerged from her shower, she found Shepherd had brought her tray of breakfast. Scrunching up her face at the offering, she made a noise that displayed her reluctance to eat it. Apparently the junk food of her last meal was off the menu. In its place was some kind of green fluid that smelled heavily of bitter ginger. She drank it, hating it, and then sat in stupefaction when after twenty minutes, nothing seemed eager to come back up.

The Alpha seemed pleased, then he left.

Alone, Claire chewed her lip and found again that the painting of Shepherd was watching her. It was still there, left out in such an obvious position, still waiting for someone to do something with it. Wiping her hands, she reached for it, aware that even in the hours she had been free of him, his face still plagued her.

It struck her then that the Alpha had hardly left her side in her waking hours, or even physically left her touch in days. Whatever had happened between her arrival and the night spent in slumber on his lap must have left him content that she was established back in his power completely.

He was right.

Claire would remain a slave—for Corday, for Nona, the Omegas… for Maryanne. She would do as he wished to give them all a chance, and she would continue to engage, stomach the bond, and play the good captive as she looked for a way to help Thólos by the singularity of her situation.

But it was strange to be alone in that cell, wide awake, and alone for more than just a fleeting hour. Looking back at that damn portrait, at the face of the man on the page, the hard set of his jaw, even the beauty of his lips, she grew uneasy at the apparent change in him. She had verbally attacked him when he could not use his normal recourse—already knotted, he could not fuck her, and had seemed astonished at the amount of malice he felt burning through the thread. Yet Shepherd had not yelled, or punished. Instead he had admitted his wrongdoing, and when their bodies were untied, the man had even supplied what she had demanded before she’d lost her temper—he took her to see her sky, let her wake in the sunshine… then asked her personal questions.

The thread hummed: Is your mate not trying? Are you not pleased?

She was not pleased, she was suspicious.

The wave of instant soothing reassurance was immediate from that warm, worming cord. It sang to her that there was no need to panic. Even Claire had to agree. The nightmare would end with his regime’s demise before the baby was born, or she would go back on a hunger strike. Or she could break the mirror in the bathroom and slit her wrists. She could just refuse to breathe.

She still got to choose.