He left her in peace, waited for her to wash her face and brush her teeth, and when she came back, Claire began to dress as if nothing had happened.

Brushing her tangled hair, she turned to the man still sitting at the end of the bed. “What would you like me to paint for you?”

He took a contemplative breath, voice almost jovial when he spoke. “A portrait of yourself, little one. One I will appreciate.”

With the brush mid-way through a tangle, Claire mused, unsure if Shepherd comprehended how difficult self-portraits would be. “That’s out of my scope. It might not be any good.”

He flicked his fingers, beckoning her closer. Apprehensive that she would be expected to perform the other requirement of their agreement at that very moment, Claire stiffened, but went to him.

Taking the brush from her hands, he set it aside and pulled her to rest on his knee. “I want you to sing for me now.”

“I already sang for you.”

The man smirked, sly as he spoke, “Our agreement did not stipulate a number of times. You simply said you would sing for me, and I desire you to do so again.”

Claire suspected it was far more for her benefit than his, a distraction that would shift her thinking in a more settling direction. “If you set this precedent and begin bending the rules, it’s only going to backfire eventually.”

He touched a finger to her nose. Shepherd squinted, and the man cooed, “Please.”

She sang the first thing that came to mind, a relic anthem about war… a song that was poignant, sad, and far too expressive of the plight of Thólos.

“Do you still feel ill?” Shepherd asked, aware of her little musical mutiny as he gently touched her belly.

Claire did not usually feel well upon waking, especially after being dragged out of bed to see pictures of victims Shepherd had murdered, and she told him so.

“The punishment meted out to those women was earned.” The man was unmoved by her declaration. “If your death would have brought them gain, they would not have hesitated to kill you. You were kind enough to see them buried. Do not mourn them further.”

“Do you not wish to be mourned when you die?” Claire asked, non-threatening, only interested in his answer.

Stroking over the baby, the tiny thing that had yet to distort her figure, Shepherd asked, “Would you not mourn me, little one? Or would you relish the death of your mate?”