"A choice?" She practically choked on the word. "You pair-bonded to me without even courting me first! There was no choice."

"You wish me to court you?" He seemed intrigued.

The brute totally missed the point, completely disregarding her accusation. Grinding her teeth in frustration, Claire buried her head against his chest and tried to pretend Shepherd was not there, that his cock was not growing flaccid inside her, and that the damned hum was not in her chest.

It was three days later, at least, she thought it was three days, when Claire woke up to find a large sketchpad, two brushes, and a set of watercolors resting innocently on the bedside table. The new things were like a magnet. She rolled out of bed and snatched them up greedily. Yesterday's dress was pulled over her head, and within minutes, she was on her belly, legs kicking behind her, the paints mixed, and the beginnings of a view coming alive on the paper.

She spent hours rendering her favorite flowers, the red poppies that bloomed in the Gallery Gardens, drenching them in sunshine under a blue, dome-free sky.

"Your talent is greater than I imagined."

Just about jumping out of her skin, Claire looked over her shoulder, pressed a hand to her heart, and shrieked, "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," Shepherd answered, already crouched at her side.

Nervous, she scooped up her paints and brushes before the giant stepped on them or got in a mood and took them away. Everything was cleaned in the bathroom sink. When she was done, Shepherd sat on the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, the drying artwork leaning against the wall by the bedside table.

"What time is it?" Claire asked, closing the bathroom door behind her.

He was hunched over, staring at the painting, a strange look in his eye. "The sun is rising."

Edging nearer the display, she reached out a hand to center her work. When she glanced toward the resting behemoth, she found his eyes held a trace of amusement, as if he found her behavior endearing.

Claire took a step back.

"You were going to smile," he grunted, as if he expected her to do so on command.

Green eyes, almost the same shade as the stems of the poppies, turned back to the painting. She knew it made no difference whether she smiled or not. "If I smiled now, I wouldn't mean it."

"You do not like your gifts?"

Hands fisted in the stuff of her skirt, she nodded. "I like the paints. You know that."

Standing, Shepherd moved toward his desk. "Paint another one."

Claire didn't paint, that mood had passed.