It continued for hours as he stripped away all her petty convictions until she was too exhausted to fight back, until her hands began to reach for him in a sex-induced daze, to stroke his back and trace the lines of his horrid tattoos. When his point had been thoroughly made, Shepherd held her against him and purred as he petted, rewarding the wayward Omega for coming to heel.

3

Shepherd could call it whatever he wanted—animal impulse, compulsion of biology, necessity of the bond—to Claire, it was still rape. She hated herself every time he coerced her to softly murmur his name in the dark, or reached out a hand to stroke the bulge of his muscle.

It was the same every day. He was almost constantly buried inside her womb. He took her when she woke, after she ate, roughly if she seemed irritable. And he always made her climax... simply to prove that he could. It left her boneless and complaisant, shut off the mind screaming at her to remember herself.

And the damn purr; Shepherd exercised it expertly when she paced in frustration or fussed.

Time became irrelevant. Claire was not even sure how long she had been underground, if it had been days or weeks. Anytime she wanted to know the hour she had to ask, and it eventually grew confusing. Night was day, day was night—everything was turned around.

Even the arrival of meals followed no set pattern, though she was never hungry for long. Shepherd was feeding her so much, in fact, it seemed sacrilegious when she could not always empty her plate. The man was fattening her up.

Random things arrived in the room for her use: products for her hair, a brush, clothing of a sort—all dresses worn only by the elite women housed at the warm levels nearest the top of the Dome—but no shoes or underwear. When Shepherd was gone, she slept. Almost the instant she woke, he returned. It was odd—like he knew—like he felt her cycles on his side of the thread. And always, before words were spoken, he took off his clothing, came to the bed, and lay with her.

Claire knew nothing about the man, but had memorized every inch of his body, the random placement of scars, the smoothness of his skin. And she knew how every inch of him tasted. None of the attention was out of affection—it was just part of the spell he would build. Though her tongue might lick his flesh, Claire never once returned any kiss he tried to press against her mouth.

That was one thing he couldn't take and couldn't force.