That was something, that inspired hope. “So you’re wrong.”

Shepherd developed a hooded expression, answered as if reluctant. “Your picture has led to a rash of violent murders of black-haired women who look like you. My men find more every day.”

Claire’s voice hitched, the sliver of hope she’d had shattered. “You’re lying!” But she was already crumbling, because it was just too fucking believable.

Gently, Shepherd asked, “Now do you understand just what the citizens of this city are?”

Head in her hands, Claire began to weep, the responsibility for each unknown woman’s death carved into her forever.

He had outmaneuvered her again; he had won.

Even scooped into circling arms, wracked with sobs, hating herself for what her flyer had inspired and how utterly stupid she was for not recognizing what it could lead to, Claire sagged to the floor. He was inside her in seconds, purring and petting, holding her tightly so she would not hurt herself by fighting back. She cried the entire time, tears running even as she climaxed, even as he told her sweet, soothing things. When that didn’t work, Shepherd proclaimed it was not her fault, that she was good, and even he knew that she could not have suspected such an outcome—she was free of guilt, she was pure, her ideals were noble… the city did not deserve her.

He told her he loved her.

She quieted a little.

The following twenty-four hours, Claire could hardly bear to leave the nest. Shepherd left her in peace so long as she ate everything he brought her, including fried potato wedges with mayonnaise and a chocolate shake.

14

When Claire woke the following day, Shepherd bathed her, dressed her, and brought out the handcuffs so that he could take her to see the sky. Deep down, she knew self-pity would get her nowhere. She wanted to rally, to get back to forging progress, because she owed it to those murdered black-haired women, but lost faith was a slippery slope, and she had nothing to hold on to.

Shepherd tried to give her that something.

He carried her to the room with the window. He locked the door and showed her his latest gift. Her mother’s piano rested against the wallpaper, his Followers having dragged it all the way from Claire’s ransacked apartment.

There was no bench, only a small stool he took himself, leaving her on his lap where she might frown at the scratched keys. As they were still chained, Shepherd followed where her fingers flexed, his body surrounding her like a blanket.