The culmination of her ruin was the perpetual attack that persisted even in her sleep. Claire's dreams were filled with soft things, warmth, and the scent of her mate... his voice, the feel of his roughened hands slipping over her skin. The dream grew stronger nightly, and to her horror, she awoke half aware and throbbing for him to fill her. She instinctively reached for him the third or fourth time she'd awoken in that state, trailing her hand down his muscular body, pressing closer in her dazed need while she hummed in the dark. Shepherd responded with absolute enthusiasm, rolling his silken weight on top of her and groaning long and deep to find her already dripping wet. In that dreamlike mating, Claire could not get enough of his skin, cried out for him when his cock replaced where his fingers had been exploring, and held him as if he were hers, as if he were precious. When a corner of her mind rebelled, she shut it off, unwilling in that moment to recognize her failing, needing the fantasy just once where she was happy. And just like that, she lost another part of herself to a monster.

As he moved inside her, the thread resonating in joy, she realized how easy it could be—how dreamlike, how intoxicating—if she would only forget and submit. When she urged him to go faster, to give her more than slow, soothing thrusts, she came apart underneath him as he pounded away, the bond throbbing as powerfully as her pussy when she burst apart. Shepherd knotted deep, the sounds he created, the transcendent quality of his iron eyes, making it clear it was the most fulfilling orgasm he'd ever known.

He praised her for hours afterward, stroking and purring, and she wished he would not speak. Claire did not want to hear how well she had pleased him or how beautiful he found her. It was making her remember that she was Claire and he was Shepherd, and all the things he had done, and all the ways she had failed in so short a time.

When she woke again, he was working at his desk, breathing in and out in a rhythmic purr that seemed so commonplace she hardly noticed it anymore. With him shirtless, Claire could see every line of his muscles, the dips and curves of a man built to break things. All that strength covered in a testament of murder...

Pulling a dress over her head, she sat at the edge of the bed and watched him.

Shepherd turned and looked at her, approval obvious between his lashes.

How far she'd fallen. Mortification made breath difficult. "How are the Omegas?"

The change in her captor was immediate. All trace of amusement vanished, and in its place was the hardness and dominance he exercised expertly. "They are exactly as they should be."