Shepherd had once said that it was not his Followers responsible for the violence. If Claire was willing to admit the truth, even she had never seen them do evil on the streets. No, their evil had been openly conducted at the Citadel. It had been her neighbors —like Mr. Nelson who she’d seen stealing from her apartment. It had been her mentors like Senator Kantor, in charge of the resistance but doing nothing.

It had been Premier Callas throwing women into the Undercroft.

Claire’s free hand absently slipped to rest atop her belly, a poor shield over her son as if to protect him from her personal agenda, the wasteland, and her darker thoughts.

Everything was going to get worse.

“You’re just one man.” Troubled, Claire looked up and met Shepherd’s eyes. “There are millions under the Dome. Desperate people transform. Soon they won’t be afraid of your virus. It’s only a matter of time before they come for you.”

Shepherd took in her hand on their child, the blankness of her expression, and knew what she was thinking.

He scowled deeply.

Internally the Omega was a jangled mess, yet outside Claire remained placid, her face emotionless, and Shepherd greatly disliked it. He’d rather she cry and purge, than remain blank… reinforcing her misgivings. His mouthy, strong Omega was poisoning herself.

Shepherd called an end to their stroll. He swept her into his arms. She didn’t complain. She didn’t notice. Even marching her back into their room, where Claire was safe in a familiar place did not alter the flatness.

Food was brought. She didn’t want to eat.

He purred. She stared into space.

Where was his thank you? Where was his reward? She should have been content, praising him… humming! Why was she being difficult again?

Instead, the Omega began pacing like she used to, fretting and wringing her hands. And then she did something that pushed him beyond the pale. Claire lay down on the floor, nonverbally refusing their bed, frowning as her eyes traced the cracks in the ceiling.

The seething mountain had had enough. Standing over her, Shepherd ordered, “If you wish for rest, you will rest in our nest.” He then pulled off his shirt, holding it out so she might get up and place it accordingly, giving her one last chance to act on her own.

Claire waved a hand at him and made a snorting sound.

He nudged her with his toe, eyes narrowed, growl deep. “Get up.”

Claire shook her head and spread out further on the floor.

He’d drag her to the nest if he had to, break her of such behavior. Leaning down, preparing to tug her up, Shepherd put his face in her line of sight. “Get. Up.”

Claire planted her foot right on his chest and pressed him away, hissing, “Piss. Off.”