Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
The Beta Ambassador in question stood composed despite the tableau.
He introduced himself as Jules Havel, Ambassador of Queen Svana and her mate Chancellor O’Donnell.
Chapter 11
Greta Dome
What once had been a grim bunker was now light drenched rooms, spacious, each corner filled with items Claire was certain Shepherd had little to no interest in—unless he saw her interest. If she touched something, he seemed to memorize the movement, looking to see if she admired or disliked.
In this home, there was a rotation of experiences, objects, sensations… crafted environments.
Those first days, things vanished, paintings on the walls replaced, or a rug shifted so subtly she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it. A chair was added near a window she preferred to stand beside. Flower filled urns waited by the bath, bright and fragrant and so very different than the blooms she’d seen in Thólos.
She didn’t understand the effort behind Shepherd’s silent undertaking. Mostly it made her feel like a bug in a jar, the way he watched, the way he read into every breath she took.
Unsure if he was waiting for some confirmation of effort, she thought to appease him. Claire ran a hand over the Oriental rug she lounged on. “This is very pretty.”
She wasn’t facing him, could not see his reaction to her words, and wondered why she didn’t turn her head.
Her last hour had been spent flipping through an item he had never allowed her before: a personal COMscreen. She was learning of Greth Dome… or at least learning of the things Shepherd had prepared for her attention and education.
The language was unknown to her, translations listed beside bright stories, entertaining bits of cultural information, a catalogue of local art, of fashion, of food.
As she read, she could feel his eyes on the back of her head—feel the way he leaned on the link to see inside her.
“You are very pretty, little one. Much prettier than the rug.”
On that point, they would have to disagree. She may have been pretty once. A great deal of surgery and scars had changed that. The worst damage was hidden by her clothing, but under her dress, they were still there.
They would always be there.
She wished he’d stop acting like he could not see them. It was not natural for Shepherd to be so… blind.
If she shifted back an inch or two, her head could rest on his knee. She could touch him and forget how she felt. She could take his feelings as her own and forget.
Claire was tempted, knowing he’d immediately thread his fingers in her hair. But that was not what Shepherd wanted; he wanted her to look at him.
He didn’t need to say it. She could feel it.
Hesitating, her attention turned to the window instead. The sun was setting. It had been a beautiful day, her private veranda full of plants, a tall wall surrounding her garden. Her house. Her things. That’s what Shepherd called them. But they were all too foreign to feel like they belonged to her.
It was too much like the North Wing with its paned windows, paneled walls, and fine furnishings—with its regiment, and medications.
This home was an anomaly, one where she never saw another soul aside from Shepherd. Whoever cleaned, whoever tended the restocking necessities, Claire could only imagine. Her meals were still prepared by some unseen chef, and brought to her by her mate. Rich food, with heavy sauces, just like he’d fed her when he’d stolen her from the Citadel—when she’d been hardly more than bones. As if their ritual had never altered, he sat with her as she ate, only now, he talked to her.
Shepherd had adapted, curbing his need to force compliance to instead coerce by asking questions. “Why won’t you look at me, Claire?”
The purr, the stroke down her hair, and Claire felt her lips form a smile before stifled emotions caught up.
Peeking over her shoulder, turning to rest her cheek on his knee, she gave Shepherd all her attention. Green eyes, soft, ran over the man—his pressed shirt, starched slacks, clean shaven cheek. It was ironic to see him dressed so formally. She stroked his ankle, feeling the wool socks and polished shoes, remembering a time he’d only ever worn combat boots. “I should paint you again.”
The way the skin beside his eyes crinkled set her heart racing.
“If you like.”
Draping herself against a thick leg, Claire hummed. “I could paint you with my eyes closed.”
“I have seen photographs of your bedroom wall within the North Wing.” His finger traced over her lips. “I was very flattered, little one.”
The memorial wall papered with watercolors of silver eyes in every expression beside her bed, mention of it took her smile away. An imagining of her dead son had been on that wall.
The man sitting on the fine couch purred louder. Not only because of the sharp stab of sorrow that altered her expression, but because there was something at his end of the link he was trying to conceal from her.