Born to Be Bound (5 page)

It continued for hours, as he stripped away all her petty convictions until she was too exhausted to fight back, until her hands began to reach for him in a sex-induced daze, to stroke his back and trace the lines of his horrid tattoos. When his point had been thoroughly made, Shepherd held her against him and purred as he petted, rewarding the wayward Omega for coming to heel.

Chapter 3

Shepherd could call it whatever he wanted—animal impulse, compulsion of biology, necessity of the bond—to Claire, it was still rape. She hated herself every time he coerced her to softly murmur his name in the dark, or reached out a hand to stroke the bulge of his muscle.

It was the same every day. He was almost constantly buried inside her womb. He took her when she woke, after she ate, roughly if she seemed irritable. And he always made her climax... simply to prove that he could. It left her boneless and complaisant, shut off the mind screaming at her to remember herself.

And the damn purr; Shepherd exercised it expertly when she paced in frustration or fussed.

Time became irrelevant. Claire was not even sure how long she had been underground, if it had been days or weeks. Anytime she wanted to know the hour she had to ask, and it eventually grew confusing. Night was day, day was night—everything was turned around.

Even the arrival of meals followed no set pattern, though she was never hungry for long. Shepherd was feeding her so much, in fact, it seemed sacrilegious when she could not always empty her plate. The man was fattening her up.

Random things arrived in the room for her use: products for her hair, a brush, clothing of a sort—all dresses worn only by the elite women housed at the warm levels nearest the top of the Dome—but no shoes or underwear. When Shepherd was gone, she slept; almost the instant she woke, he returned. It was odd—like he knew—like he felt her cycles on his side of the thread. And always, before words were spoken, he took off his clothing, came to the bed, and lay with her.

Claire knew nothing about the man but had memorized every inch of his body, the random placement of scars, the smoothness of his skin. And she knew how every inch of him tasted. None of the attention was out of affection—it was just part of the spell he would build. Though her tongue might lick his flesh, Claire never once returned any kiss he tried to press against her mouth.

That was one thing he couldn't take and couldn't force.

His expressions were another study; Shepherd conveying much with his steel eyes. Claire was learning to read his moods by their subtle shifts. When he arrived angry, eyes blazing and nostrils flared over something she had no knowledge of, he almost always mounted her from behind—hard and fast—roaring when he came. When he seemed his version of mellow, it was slow touches while he watched her face. What she saw then; the calculation, the intense concentration—it frightened her more. He was dissecting her piece by piece. A little pressure here, a little tug there... and poof, no more Claire.

Their schedules were markedly different. They never shared meals; in fact, she never saw him eat. The only thing he seemed keen to share with her was his bathing ritual; washing her being an act Shepherd enjoyed and took extensive care with. Once she was clean, he would rut immediately. Sometimes against the wall in the shower, as if he could not wait another second to put his scent back on his Omega.

It felt like her vocabulary had been reduced to only soft gasps or screams of, "
Shepherd..."
That was what he coaxed out. "
Shepherd..."
Another part of her died... "
Shepherd..."

Lying spread on top of him, not knowing the hour or day of the week, Claire felt the anchor of his knot locked inside her and suddenly began to weep as if her heart was breaking.

With his hand stroking her hair, he hummed, half-asleep, "Why are you crying, little one?"

She was crying because he was killing her.

He hushed her and wiped the tears that continued to fall. "What would please you?"

"I want to go outside," she sobbed against his chest, so very tired of those four concrete walls. "I need to see the sky."

There was no answer for a moment, only the sound of his breathing. "Once you have become more settled in your new life it may be allowed on occasion, but only under escort and only if you have a bellyful of my seed to scent you."

So she would be expected to mate with him just to leave the room. The exploitation was not missed. Her tears dried and her usual distracted dejection made the little string buzz out of tune. "I have done nothing wrong, and you have trapped me in prison."

Shepherd felt her resentment through the thinly formed cord, traced the line of her spine as he considered her opinion of
prison
and how it was far from the actual truth. His little Omega should be grateful; life could be a whole lot worse for her. "It isn't safe for you outside this room."

Half aware of what she was saying, Claire lay lifeless and muttered, "Thólos is unsafe because you made it that way."

Silver eyes focused on the strands of midnight hair running through his fingers. "That is true."

With her cheek pressed to his heart, she said, "You're insane."

She felt a bit of a rumbling chuckle and just ignored him.

Shepherd palmed her rear. "You have not been this conversational in some time."

The knot was slowly beginning to loosen, his seed spilling out as the barrier receded. Feeling the gratuitous amount of fluid drip from her womb, she drummed her fingers on his barrel chest. "If I start talking, you throw me on the bed. What's the point?"

"I only quiet you when you fret."

"Like I said... crazy."

"Resisting is pointless," the male grunted, stroking her back to quietness when she seemed eager to wiggle away.

Resigned, Claire stilled and was rewarded with a purr, certain the man was trying to train her like some dog.

"You will find, in time, that the arrangement will naturally grow on you, little one." Shepherd spoke as if he knew, as if it were absolute. "Exercise patience."

Defiant, she growled against his naked chest, "My name is Claire."

He smacked her backside hard enough to sting.

Her head flew up, green eyes blazing. He chuckled, the sound masculine, and musical, and thoroughly entertained. She hated it.

"Don't spank me like a child!"

Silver eyes playful, he refuted, "If you act like one, I will answer accordingly."

"My name
is
Claire. Claire O'Donnell. And before you unleashed hell in Thólos, I was an artist. I had a life and friends... my own home... things you must imagine an Omega worked very hard to achieve in a world where we are prized for mates but lowest in the hierarchy. You took all that away, stripped every one of us of what we were, made the masses so feral that I had to go into hiding. You might have me trapped, but I will
always
be Claire."

Seemingly unconcerned with her rant, Shepherd cupped the curve of her hip, "What sort of art?"

Scowling, she answered bluntly, "Illustrations for children's books."

"Given your previous celibacy it seems a bit ironic, don't you think, Miss O'Donnell?"

"Why, because I didn't breed with the first Alpha who sniffed me? I wanted to find a good mate and the men I've met tend to be..." her eyes held his as she spoke her feelings, "pretty terrible."

Shepherd's expression was not threatening; his silver eyes remained languid, but in a growl he harshly explained, "You chose to enter the Citadel. You exposed yourself at great risk. You must have known you would never be allowed to return once I knew what you were."

"I was hoping a man known as
The Shepherd
would have honor," Claire grudgingly admitted.

Voice almost lazy, Shepherd replied, "And I did the honorable thing, did I not? I fought a mob and saved you from violent rape. I gave you a choice. You chose me and I claimed you. Since then, you have been protected and cared for while others suffer under the Dome."

"A choice?" She practically choked on the word. "You pair-bonded to me without even courting me first! There was no choice."

"You wish me to court you?" He seemed intrigued.

The brute totally missed the point, completely disregarding her accusation. Grinding her teeth in frustration, Claire buried her head against his chest and tried to pretend Shepherd was not there, that his cock was not growing flaccid inside her, and that the damned hum was not in her chest.

#

It was three days later, at least, she thought it was three days, when Claire woke up to find a large sketchpad, two brushes, and a set of watercolors resting innocently on the bedside table. The new things were like a magnet; she rolled out of bed and snatched them up greedily. Yesterday's dress was pulled over her head and within minutes she was on her belly, legs kicking behind her, the paints mixed, and the beginnings of a view coming alive on the paper.

She spent hours rendering her favorite flowers, the red poppies that bloomed in the Gallery Gardens, drenching them in sunshine under a blue, dome-free sky.

"Your talent is greater than I imagined."

Just about jumping out of her skin, Claire looked over her shoulder, pressed a hand to her heart, and shrieked, "How long have you been there?"

"Long enough," Shepherd answered, already crouched at her side.

Nervous, she scooped up her paints and brushes before the giant stepped on them or got in a mood and took them away. Everything was cleaned in the bathroom sink. When she was done, Shepherd sat on the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, the drying artwork leaning against the wall by the bedside table.

"What time is it?" Claire asked, closing the bathroom door behind her.

He was hunched over, staring at the painting, a strange look in his eye. "The sun is rising."

Edging nearer the display, she reached out a hand to center her work. When she glanced toward the resting behemoth, she found his eyes held a trace of amusement, as if he found her behavior endearing.

Claire took a step back.

"You were going to smile," he grunted, as if he expected her to do so on command.

Green eyes, almost the same shade as the stems of the poppies, turned back to the painting. She knew it made no difference whether she smiled or not. "If I smiled now, I wouldn't mean it."

"You do not like your gifts?"

Hands fisted in the stuff of her skirt, she nodded. "I like the paints; you know that."

Standing, Shepherd moved toward his desk. "Paint another one."

Claire didn't paint, that mood had passed.

Sitting like an overgrown hulk at the small desk, Shepherd accessed his COMscreen and ignored her. Claire began her ritual pacing, a caged animal denied the room to run. Darting a glance at the back of his hated head, she suspected his inattention was some ruse. That at any moment he would turn around and pull out his cock.

But the exclusion continued—as if he were trying to break her down, confuse her... doing it subtly until she just cracked.

Breathing irregularly, her fists clenched in her hair, pulling black locks, she repeated over and over inside her skull.
"I am Claire."

"Come here." The order was issued in a moderate voice, Shepherd having not even turned his head in her direction.

The last time she ignored a summons he'd fucked her three times in a row, even as she begged him to stop—left her spent and replete until she could do nothing but lie still and stare at the wall. Moving to stand at his side, her hair wild, Claire did as she was told.

A large hand enveloped the entirety of her hip, pulling her a few inches closer before the mountain turned. "Your brooding is making you upset."

Why was she being reprimanded for having feelings? Normal humans who were not psychopathic murderers had feelings. And normal people did not do well for weeks on end in the same fucking room with only a monster for company!

Working his massive thumb into the hollow below her hip bone, Shepherd took in her disturbed expression. "Sing something for me."

"Uhhh…" What? Sing? Claire did not want to mate, and that was the probable outcome if she refused. Scowling, she rubbed her lips together and tried to slow down her thoughts long enough to think of a song. Nothing came to mind. "What kind of song?"

"Something soothing."

He was trying to get her to self-soothe. Well, he could go fuck himself. After a minute or two of deliberation, with the same steady pressure of his thumb moving against her skin, Claire settled on a well-known ballad older than the time of the domes. It was sappy and portrayed romance in a totally untrue light, but she had always liked it.

Though now she knew better. There was no such thing as true love—of that Claire was certain—only indoctrination, chemicals, and bastards who kept you locked in rooms.

By the time she neared the end, her voice had grown desolate. The brooding had been replaced with despair. There was never going to be a hero. The growing cord of the bond made it clear that she would only ever have the large Alpha seated before her; a man whose face she hated with her whole heart.

"Kneel."

The pressure of Shepherd's hand gently suggested she follow the order on her own, or he would press her down. Degraded, she went to her knees and looked up into his silver eyes, her lower lip trembling, certain he would punish her for thinking such dark thoughts.

When all he did was take her head and put it in his lap, she breathed out in relief. He petted her as he worked, Claire silently crying onto the fabric at his thigh, confoundedly comforted as he played with her hair.

There was a knock at the door. Surprised, she moved to get up. With a hand on the back of her neck, Shepherd kept her as she was, barking for the caller to enter. She should have known... it was all just a show for when his Follower came to call.

Until that moment, no one had been in the room, no one had seen what she had become. Peeking for just a second, she saw the same Beta from the first day. The men spoke in a coarse language that meant nothing to her, Claire's face pressed against Shepherd's thigh.