Absently, she looked about and found her earlier assessment was incorrect. The room was just not right. It began with the bedding, it was unsatisfactory. It had to be replaced. She stripped it off, feeling slightly better when fresh linen was laid out. Her painting had to be moved, to be centered. A headache began to pound, the lump on her skull throbbing. She began to pace some more. One moment she was hot, the next cold. Yet no matter if she sweated or shivered, she was thoroughly uncomfortable.

Worry for the Omegas agitated the forefront of her thoughts. Shepherd had assured her no one had been wounded. But what of Lilian? What of her cohorts? Had he murdered them? Was he stringing them up that very second?

Claire's stomach rolled, and for a moment she felt truly ill. The feeling passed, swamping her with dread and leaving her empty. This was it. Green eyes appraised drab, grey walls, sweeping the room. This was her life—a life tethered to a man obsessed with keeping her hidden away; who was going to hang three women because they had tried to collect the bounty he'd offered. A possessive monster who wielded evil as a tool… a fiend who would say terrifying things and then cuddle her back to a sense of false comfort.

Shepherd was admittedly evil. They were incompatible—in needs, in ideals—in the very makeup of their souls. And they were pair-bonded. Forever.

Before she might cry, Claire tried to lose herself in cleaning the room, slowed by her arm and distracted by her worry. No matter how she scrubbed, nothing seemed clean enough. But the worm was pulsing, indulging in her crazy behavior, whispering to her of how perfect this was, of the beauty of that grey-walled room, of the prowess of her mate and how clever he was in retrieving her.

By the time Shepherd arrived, Claire was resigned, sitting at the table with her head on her arms. Her mate had a tray for her, and looked over the room with approval upon finding that his female had occupied her time practically. They did not speak. Claire simply sat up, pushing her hair behind her ear, and frowned at the food.

It was a beautifully arranged chicken breast, drenched in a savory sauce thick with mushrooms and garlic. Exactly the kind of cuisine Claire loved, but something about the smell was off. It had been difficult to eat during those last few days of freedom, a side effect of fighting the bond, and she felt uncomfortable even as she reached for her fork. The man was purring, he smelled of rich Alpha, all things that should have brought her comfort, all things her body and mind had demanded when she'd been in hiding. Even so, she could hardly force half of the dish down.

It should have been good. She should have been hungry.