Reborn (Alpha's Claim Book 3)

by Addison Cain

  Taking her hand, Corday called to her. Green eyes shifted so slowly it seemed unnatural.

  “What have you done to her?” Corday growled to Dane, refusing to look away before Claire might recognize him.

  “Miss O’Donnell is recovering from severe trauma under the best possible care,” Premier Dane replied, tone irritated.

  Turning his head towards his old comrade, Corday leveled her with a disbelieving snarl, “She is drugged out of her mind. Afraid she was going to tell me something? What is going on here?”

  The Beta’s voice had risen louder and Claire seemed to wake, if only for a moment. Her little fingers toyed with his ring and she whispered, “This was my mother’s.”

  Corday forced the anger from his face and gave her an encouraging purr. “Yes, Claire, it was.”

  “I gave it to Corday.”

  “You did.” The Enforcer nodded.

  It was as if she could not register the Beta in question was speaking, continuing as if talking to herself. “So he would not forget me. He saved Thólos.”

  Lightly taking her chin between his forefinger and thumb, Corday lifted her face so she might find his eyes. “I am Corday, Claire. I am here. I came to visit you.”

  The woman seemed as if she had no idea what was going on, leaning closer as if to share a secret. “I still hear him you know, purring in the room with me. Sometimes I feel him stroke my hair.”

  Corday fought not to draw back in disgust, not to let his eyes widen even fractionally. In a gentle voice he explained, squeezing her hand as he smiled, “Shepherd is dead, Claire. You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore.”

  “I want to go outside.”

  It was the doctor lingering back by the door who spoke. “That can be arranged at once, Miss O’Donnell.”

  It seemed a small army of nurses appeared from nowhere, and the woman, the inmate, was granted exactly what she asked for. The French doors overlooking the private lawn were unlocked, a small patio table and chairs exposed. Yet the strangeness of the prison was apparent to Corday, the thickness of the glass, the fact the exterior doors were made of dense metal and not wood, that they had been painted white to seem inviting and not vault-like, didn’t add up.

  Claire was raised from her chair, the soft green of her dress settling around her legs. Her doctor took her into the sun. In the midst of the commotion of white coats and guards, Corday wandered about her room, the natural appearance of it, finding nothing clinical. He would have thought it was all a sham if not for the watercolors littering the blue walls.

  Everything was images of Thólos, the horrors she’d seen, the Da’rin marked body of the tyrant in several of them. Between the finished paintings were dozens that were only a study of silver eyes in every possible expression. Corday was amazed they let her keep such things, all those stark images of Shepherd pinned to the wall as if he were lingering in the room. There was even a portrait of the man practically smiling, a thing Corday stood before, intently studying.

  The paper was crinkled, you could see where it had been folded over itself. It was also bloodstained.

  Corday reached up and plucked it from the wall, knowing it was a memento from the siege. He did not know what possessed him to turn it over, but he found a note scratched on the back as if written frantically by an author with scant time.

  Little one,

  I know you understand why I am not with you, even though it may take some time for you to accept. Do not forget that I love you. I love you, Claire O’Donnell, and I know you will be a wonderful mother to our son. I would give my life a thousand times over to assure your security and wellbeing. Knowing how much you dislike when I tell you that I am doing this all for you, I am going to hazard your anger when you read this, and say it again anyway. Everything is for you, my love. Everything I must do.

  Promise me that you will tell Collin daily that his father had pride in him, that I loved him.

  I will meet death meditating on how I have adored you from the first moment I found your green eyes in the Citadel, redeemed. You were my redeemer. My sky.

  Forever,

  Shepherd

  “I would put that back immediately if I were you.” There was a brisk agitated warning in Premier Dane’s voice. Even her expression was hostile. “She would be very upset should she see you touching it.”

  Corday held it up, demanding gruffly, “What the fuck is this?”

  It was Dane who took it from Corday’s hands and returned the portrait to its prime position on the wall. Dane’s eyes that lingered over a smaller painting of a little boy with black hair and silver eyes hanging beside it.

  “I tried to warn you.” The Premier put an arm around the young Enforcer’s shoulder, less an offer of comfort and more a physical assurance he would follow her. “But you never listen. Come, she is waiting for you outside.”

  It was humid again, light rainfall scenting the air with the smell of earthy grass. Claire liked when the windows fogged. Everything smelled better for one, the room glowed, the white windowpanes translucent, heaven-like.

  She liked to picture the room that way sometimes, as if all that moisture might form into a single massive wave to wash her clean. If she wasn’t careful with those thoughts sometimes they expanded into dark territory, the city being sucked down into the bottom of an ocean, decimated. The imaginings would be paired with intense anger, a racing heart, and loathing.

  Deep down, Claire hated Thólos.

  She would dream of it burning, feeling only relief as flames devoured her city, and wake up in tears. Every time it happened, the air would be rich with his purr until she was calm again, until she was back in control.

  “You have not eaten your lunch, Miss O’Donnell.”

  Dipping her paintbrush in red, Claire answered without looking away from her work. “I’m not hungry.”

  Approaching slowly so Claire might not panic, Premier Dane said, “I thought you enjoyed the rain. Yet you are agitated and have not touched your last two meals. Therefore, I do believe now might be the time to discuss what you are afraid of.”

  Every morning six or seven pills, physical therapy, psychotherapy, group therapy with the other damaged Omegas who dwelled in the house. Then there were the endless injections. Life was always half in a fog, if you could even call what was inside her life. But there was one thing no amount of anti-depressants could alter—the very real fear of the inevitable.

  “You have been recovering for eight months and still refuse to participate in group therapy, to share anything with any of your doctors or the staff.” The woman lifted a small Chippendale chair from near the dining table and carried it over to where Claire sat at her easel. Sitting back, Dane looked at her painting. “Are you not drowning in the silence?”

  Claire turned her face towards the woman, accustomed to her short-cropped silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. “And what is it you want me to say? I told you, I don’t know where the virus is.”

  “You have been given a dose of heat suppressant daily, but they cannot repress it forever. Estrous is coming, perhaps as soon as the morning, given your current temperature and disposition.”

  The Omega’s lips formed into a line and anger found its way past mind dulling medication—as did a healthy dose of terror.

  Premier Dane tried again. “I do believe it would be good for your recovery to engage in sexual activity.”

  “No.”

  She had a way with Claire, a skill even her psychiatrist lacked in gentle prompting. “An Alpha could be chosen for you. Or if you prefer, you can choose from any of the existing staff. Should they agree, of course.”

  “No.”

  “Your mate is dead, Miss O’Donnell. No matter the hallucinations or dreams. What you think you feel is not a pair-bond. It is only an echo you are afraid to let go of.”

  Green eyes went back to the painting of poppies and Claire flatly declined to engage. “Who says I feel anything?”

  Moving to the edge of her seat,
Premier Dane asked, “Do you not wish to move on in your life? To have children?”

  “I had a child. He died.”

  “Your miscarriage was a terrible ordeal.” Dane took her paint brush away and set it aside. “You were raped by three of the castoffs your mate had left lingering in the Undercroft. This went on for many hours and left you scarred physically and emotionally.”

  “Do you know when I woke up in this place,” Claire began, sneering and bitter that there was no trace of the purr in the air. “One of the first things the doctor told me was that he had saved my reproductive organs, as if I should be overjoyed. Tell me, what the fuck is wrong with all of you?”

  Dane nodded, her face serene. “You believe you should not have been resuscitated.”

  Claire said nothing.

  “You were given a field blood transfusion. Did you know that?” Premier Dane tapped her knee with her finger, “A Follower bleeding out from many severe wounds gave you the last of his life instead of saving himself. He died next to you, assuring your heart would keep beating until help arrived.”

  Looking away, riding the wave of drug induced apathy, Claire did her best not to picture Jules, knowing it had to have been him and doubting herself all the same—the Beta would not have done such a foolish thing if they were all going to die in a matter of minutes from the virus. Yet, all in all, when had life really made sense anyway?

  Scowling, realizing the Premier had been successful again in making her think of things, Claire let out a breath. “There will be no estrous. Inject me with whatever you have to.”

  “That is dangerous, Claire.”

  The use of her first name made the Omega’s lips quirk and brought a small trace of amusement into the glassy gaze. “Is it Claire now?”

  The older Alpha smiled warmly, like a mother, and leaned back. “I do believe we have reached that point in our association.”

  “I am not going to call you Martin.”

  A small frown came to the woman’s face, her brows drawn down. “You know my name is Lucile Dane, Miss O’Donnell. Who is Martin?”

  Out of nowhere Claire’s lower lip began to tremble from the flash of memory. Eyes running over with tears at her slip naming the surrogate Shepherd had chosen for her, Claire whispered, “I want to be left alone now.”

  Dane stood and put a hand on her shoulder, staying with her and purring through the entirety of the Omega’s meltdown, watching the woman press her face into her hands and sob as if the world was ending.

  It was Corday’s habit to surprise her with paper flowers he’d made himself during his infrequent free hours, pulling them from behind his back as if she did not know they were already there. The act was always matched with a charmingly boyish smile. And then brown eyes would take a few seconds to look her over for marks or signs of unspoken trouble.

  Setting aside The Art of War, Claire left her seat at the window and went to greet her friend. “I am amazed you made it. I have been told there is a blizzard in the Dome.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged sheepishly. “It’s only a little snow.”

  Corday had been furious when he arrived two months prior and had been turned away, told by men with machine guns that no one could see patient 142. He’d assumed the worst, and practically charged the North Wing’s gates. Alpha guards had forced him off. Biting down on his temper, he had come back in the night, using the ventilation ducts to break in... and found the real reason he’d been denied entry.

  She was in estrous, contained to enforce her desire for celibacy. He distanced himself immediately, already far too close to the scent of her slick. Claire had never known he was there, but Corday stayed nearby for the entire three days it took for her to come through the heat... because she was crying, and scared, and he could not bear to leave her.

  Twice a day she was attended by her physician, vitals taken, the Omega injected with something she readily offered her arm for each time. The man never touched her inappropriately; he never responded to her scent. Considering Corday had always found Premier Dane to be an absolute shrew, he had to admit, the amount of care she’d guaranteed his friend seemed almost unbelievable.

  “You have a grand piano in your room...” Corday gaped, seeing the hulking thing set up in the corner.

  Claire chuckled. “Is that what those are called. I just thought it was a fancy new table.” Setting her flowers aside, she moved to the bench and began to play a song that had been popular before the first Dome had been erected.

  While she played, he looked over the wall to see what paintings had been removed and replaced. They never discussed it, Corday’s appraisal, but he could read her life on that wall. It was one filled with Shepherd. Many of the most offensive paintings had vanished to be replaced with watercolors of flowers, what looked like the foam of a cappuccino, and a sea of silver eyes.

  As always, the bloodstained portrait of the man held a position of honor.

  “You know,” Corday spoke over her music, “you’re much more fun to hang out with when you’re not drooling on yourself.”

  He heard her laugh and trill the keys in that comic riff old films added after shitty jokes.

  It was one of her better days, so Corday chose to take the initiative and slide onto the bench next to her, pretending he didn’t notice when she stiffened at the physical contact and swallowed nervously. When all he did was start to play chopsticks, she loosened up and laughed.

  Shoulder to shoulder, they screwed around, banging on her pretty new instrument like misbehaving children until out of the blue, Claire froze. At first, it was as if she was trying to hide that her gaze was darting around to all the shadowed corners. Moments later, she put her hand on his to make him stop with the noise, and closed her eyes.

  Scowling, Corday asked, “What are you-”

  “Shhhhh,” she hushed him, face serene, softly smiling. Over the next few seconds she seemed to melt, all her tension faded as she breathed slowly and kept her eyes closed.

  Corday was angry. “He’s not there, Claire.”

  Her dark lashes lifted and she peeked at the man at her side, a little sad, and very lonely. “Yes he is. He is there.”

  It was not the first time she had done this, and it was so fucking frustrating. How do you compete with a ghost?

  “Shepherd is not there!” Corday climbed off the bench to glare down at her. “Do you hear me? Shepherd is dead. He was a monster. He hurt you! He hurt a lot of people! What you think you felt for him was forced by the pair-bond and the baby he drugged you to create. Pure manipulation. You didn’t love him!”

  Corday had figured out a long time ago that she’d need time, having sat in the hearings as the government officials pieced together what they had learned from inspecting her cell, her paintings underground, the nature of her rape. There was a reason so few Follower bodies were found. They had used the ancient transport ships docked atop the Citadel. They had abandoned Thólos... Shepherd had tried to get her out of the city. Even the letter on the wall made that clear. It was the only good thing he’d ever done for her, and Shepherd had failed at it. And in the fucked up half-drugged reality the doctors kept her in, his Claire could not see what was right before her, as if she had shifted the blame to that bitch Svana and didn’t remember the truth of her history.

  Fighting to control his temper, Corday put a hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him, purring as loud as he could to cut through whatever sound her mind was creating. “Claire, I am a living breathing man and I do love you. I would never hurt you. And I am willing to wait for you to get your head together, but you have to open your eyes and accept facts.”

  A little suspicious, the Omega remained silent, her ears pricked as she listened to the Beta purr. Shepherd’s was still louder, it was richer, and it was far more beautiful.

  That night after Corday left, Claire lay in her bed in the dark and waited for the phantom hand to touch her hair. Sniffing into her pillow, she felt the throb of the link, the twist that came
to warm her insides when she was lonely.

  It had been almost a year, and though her body had healed, her spirit was adrift.

  Corday was deluding himself; the Beta would never understand. Whatever future he had imagined could never exist. She would rather die than mate another man. And though it had never been officially said to her face, she knew there was no leaving the room and walled garden they kept her in... unless she submitted to another Alpha. This was her prison, why else would the guards walk the halls with assault rifles and every door be locked like a vault? Even her windows were inches thick glass, seemingly unbreakable, probably bulletproof.

  She never talked about Shepherd. She never talked about Svana. And only once in those horrible group therapy sessions had she been able to speak about the rape. And she’d spoken, and spoken, and spoken until she was screaming and threw up all over the floor. They had kept her sedated for days afterward. Several times Premier Dane had come to speak with her about the event and Claire refused to even look at the woman. All the Omega had wanted was the noise that wasn’t supposed to be there and the dreams that occasionally fought through the drugs where Shepherd held her in their nest, whispering that he loved her.

  Though Claire knew it was only the rush of the wind against the side of the Dome, it was as if she could hear him, calling to her. And like she always did, she slipped her toes from the covers and left the warmth of her bed to look out the window, hoping that for once she might actually see the man waiting on the horizon.

  The nightgown swished around her legs as she crept to the glass doors to look out at the blizzard on the other side of the Dome, and heard him again, louder.

  She was done with this place and hollow echoes, if he was calling her to the storm, that’s where she would go.

  Claire had seen the code enough times to punch in the correct order of numbers until the mechanical hiss of the lock being thrown met her ears. She went outside, clambered to the highest point of the Dome she could reach, needing to stand in the wind, to hear little one once more.