It had been printed in big block letters.

There was a soft intake of breath when Claire came to terms with her blindness. How could she have not recognized such a thing when the knowledge might have been useful to Corday?

Her voice shook, her veins turning to ice. “Her name is Leslie Kantor...”

“You will not think of her, Claire.”

“She was important enough to be on the cover of the The Thólosite. I cut my hair to look like hers... I am a little copy of your beloved, just like she said.”

Shepherd narrowed his eyes. “You are nothing like Svana.”

A rough snap came from Shepherd’s end of the thread, as if the male demanded she stop the direction of her thoughts. Claire ignored it and opened her mind to stutter though everything that flooded in.

Leslie Kantor, Svana, had been underground only a few days ago. She had touched Shepherd, communicated with Shepherd... and she was out there, in Thólos working to destroy the city. That was why, that horrible day months ago, the woman implied she saw Shepherd rarely.

Muttering under her breath, impatient and equally horrified, Claire said, “Kantor is a very powerful name.”

Shepherd removed his hand from her nape, laying his arms stiffly at his sides, where the mountain’s fists clenched until his knuckles became white. Idly hushing him, petting his flank, Claire hummed, deep in thought, her actions merely instinctive as she stroked the angry Alpha sweetly. Shutting her eyes, turning her face to nestle in the musculature of his chest, she shut out everything but what she saw in her mate. Her mind fought to piece it together, feeling as if she was on a precipice, that the moment held a great value that she needed, that Thólos needed, that Shepherd needed.

She felt physically ill, plagued by all the anger bearing down on her from the male. The link was aflame, her eyes pricking. When she could bear no more, Claire leaned up, her humming ended, and she put her fingers to Shepherd’s chin. His face was turned away, the man pointedly looking elsewhere. Silver eyes were boring a hole into the wall instead, and even Shepherd’s scent was full of the warning musk of imminent violence. So Claire sat up and began to sing to him, a soft song in a pre-Dome language she suspected he would find pleasure in.

The fire of his eyes jerked in his skull and settled on the little thing straddling his chest. He growled at her, not sexually, but with immense threat. Her voice did not waver, the song continued, and with strength of purpose she lured him. The beast continued to watch, to follow the movement of her mouth, and Claire saw his neck twitch, saw him swallow and fractionally relax.

The last refrain passed her lips, the music ended, and she did not start again.