Corrupted (Alpha's Claim Book 5)

by Addison Cain

The doors closed, two cases left on the bloodstained floor.

  “The archives are well-kept in Bernard,” the man said, moving toward the door to retrieve the physician's things. “This Red Room was designed to host the reigning Commodore. There are no access panels. The windows are practically unbreakable. Every piece of the design was constructed in such a way that the most paranoid of leaders might sleep with less concern they would be murdered for their title—yet the room was stained with blood. To remind them of the price of power. As you have noticed, there is no balcony and only one door. The guards outside that door have already received the updated registries. All of Alpha Sector is on alert, and Central is under their control.”

  She didn’t care about the room or the fact that he claimed to have cornered her far better than Jacques might.

  The man set the cases on the bed, rifling through their contents before snapping on gloves.

  Wincing when he touched her face, Brenya closed her eyes and reminded herself to breathe.

  “Had Jacques taken the time to pay attention to what was going on in your head, you would have been locked in this room ages ago.”

  The prick of a needle entered the swelling flesh of her check, a shock of stinging injection that left her trapping a groan in her throat.

  Sweet numbness followed. Until he pricked a new spot, and then another.

  When the pain subsided enough that Brenya might unclench her jaw, she answered, “I have always enjoyed the color red.”

  A hint of a smirk came to the man threading a curved needle with wire. “As have I.”

  The Bernard flag was red. Commendations came on red ribbons. That is where her mind went when the first stab of the needle pierced her flesh. Though painless, the tug and pull of suturing skin was unpleasant.

  Yet, Jules Havel proceeded quickly, as if he had sewn skin to skin many times in the past. Knotting his second stitch, he asked, “What did Jacques whisper in your ear?”

  “That I was to lay back… and think of him.”

  “What else?”

  “That this would be a short-lived inconvenience.”

  With a dry laugh, the man began another suture. The hooked needle delved back into her skin, she continued to bleed.

  Trying to remain still so he might continue, Brenya asked, “Will it be?”

  “That depends on your definition of inconvenience.” The final knot was tied. “You are my wife as of me stamping my claim as Commodore upon the contracts—”

  “First wife,” she corrected. If he was like Ancil, he could claim a Beta as well.

  Finished assessing his work, those terrible eyes bore into hers. “I will not be taking another wife.”

  She had no response.

  “I own you in the sense of Bernard law. But I possess you in the sense of your spirit, and I am disinterested in setting you free. Which means I cannot kill Jacques Bernard.”

  Five people had died of Red Consumption in her precious home. Ancil had been slaughtered before her. Brenya could only sum up such a cold question to shock. “What happens if Jacques Bernard dies?”

  His answer was direct and equally uninformative. “You will discover that for yourself the next time you see Lucia.”

  Outside the red room, the sun had begun to warm the sky, Brenya taking in what was an even more remarkable view while iodine was blotted on her cheek.

  “Are there other injuries that I have not seen?”

  Sighing, Brenya felt exhaustion roll over her so suddenly she lurched. “Nothing Lucia didn’t already see to.”

  “It seems the nature of our pair-bond is more physical than those I have observed in the past. What you are feeling is the sensation of Jacques being sedated. I can’t have him running wild, murdering my people in a tantrum over losing his favorite toy.”

  It was an apropos comparison. “He told me you would give me back after you were done.”

  That subtle smirk was back. “Did he?”

  She needed this to be over so she might find a few hours of sleep;, otherwise, she was going to crack. “I would like to be excused from taking you down my throat until my cheek has healed. Kindly tell me, would you prefer that I brace on all fours. Or lay on my back. I was told earlier that I am expected to touch the male inside me, and I will strive to do so if that is what you wish.”

  Stripping off sterile gloves, Jules Havel commanded, “Take off your dress, Brenya Havel.”

  The name caught her even as her hands moved to reach buttons she would not be able to unfasten without help. Once she processed that in less than a year she had gone from being 17C, to mon chou, to Brenya Perin, to Brenya Havel she found nothing but that damn necklace in the way.

  Lowering her hands to her bloodstained lap, she confessed, “I cannot take this dress off by myself.”

  It should have registered sooner that he already stood between her legs. That he had been cradled there the entire time he had sewn the wound on her face—but the intimacy of the position only just sank in.

  That was how tired she’d become.

  Far too tired to resist when he reached around her neck to unclasp the necklace, Jules tossed it to the side as if it were nothing but rocks on a string. When he began on the buttons down her spine, she felt the fabric frill release her aching neck, and Brenya pulled in a full breath that was sweet with the scent of a hungry man.

  Deft fingers undid one closure at a time until the gown parted and could be pulled from her shoulders. It was not her breasts he looked to when her dress pooled at her waist. It was the subtle swelling of her shoulders, the scratches from an Alpha who preferred to tear clothing from her skin, the fingerprints and bruises.

  Each was inspected with naked fingers, her shoulder moved to test mobility, and scowled at when it was clear the tendon was inflamed.

  “I have yet to see the footage of how you reached my cell, but once I have, I believe we are going to have a discussion about technique. This was an avoidable injury.”

  Insult brushed aside common sense. Brenya bit back, “I guarantee my climbing technique is far superior to yours, Jules Havel. I was climbing before I could walk.”

  “Hmm.” He took a step back, surveying her torso in another sweep. “Stand and remove your skirt.”

  Silk and lace whispered to the ground, Brenya eager to be done with this.

  “Turn.”

  She did, facing away while he brushed her hair from her back. His touch traced down her vertebrae, stopping on occasion for a thumb to dig in until she grunted. Yet each pass caused something tight to release.

  Fingertips moved to her buttocks, gently pulling apart her flesh. She knew what he saw, why he asked, “How long ago did he do this?”

  “Hours ago.”

  “Did you bleed?”

  “No. He made sure I saw that I had not.”

  “I see.” Physically turning her to face him, Jules met her eyes as he asked, “Any vaginal complaint?”

  None that would impede whatever Jules Havel intended to do to her. “I was stretched with the pliarator earlier today. There should be nothing to prevent you from…”

  “From what, Brenya Havel?”

  The word was small. He made her feel small. “Penetration.”

  “Then climb into bed.”

  21

  Greth Dome

  Despite her previous urges to deny Shepherd a proper nest, she built one around him as he snored. Nimbly arranging the wonderfully soft new things he’d provided. Gifts brought before he had come to her in need of comfort only a mate might provide. Claire created a wonder for him to wake in.

  Since coming to Greth, she had never seen him so exhausted. Nor had there ever been a situation in which her subtle movements had not instantly jarred him from sleep. For crying out loud, she practically slept like a corpse so the Alpha would get the rest he so clearly needed.

  But she refused to worry. Emotions could be controlled and explored later. Right now, she needed to take care of him.

  So he could take
care of everyone else.

  Jules had a new wife now. Shepherd had shown Claire a projection of a woman standing on a balcony, the wind dancing through her hair as she stared into the distance.

  A scar dragged down one of the Omega’s eyelids, puckered the flesh of her cheek.

  An engaging scar on the face of an interesting woman.

  Smiling at the picture, Claire told Shepherd she’d chosen a friend… so he could stop grousing.

  “Brenya Havel does not speak your language, and she needs time, little one.” Yet it was clear Shepherd was pleased by her declaration. “You come on strong, and the last year of her life has not been easy. Let’s not overwhelm her.”

  “Then I will send a gift. A painting.” She smiled, already knowing exactly which view of her garden to capture. “We can exchange letters.”

  It was so rare to catch Shepherd in an open act of contemplation. Which left Claire grinning as he looked to the side and pondered. “You could prepare for her your favorite Omega information.”

  “Omega information?” Chuckling before she nipped his chest, Claire hummed in the exact pitch that would make his eyes heavy. “Sure. I’ll put together a manual.”

  It was meant to be a joke, but the way Shepherd looked at her…

  “She was the first Omega in Bernard Dome in generations. It would be a kindness to give her some perspective.”

  Claire reeled, trying to imagine what life might have been like without a sisterhood of Omegas to guide her. A mother, Nona, all the women she had met with in secret because their lives required safety in numbers and vigilance.

  “The Alpha who forged the bond. He hurt her,” Claire whispered. Because of course he did. He wouldn’t know what to do any more than Brenya might.

  It was a situation that almost deserved pity for the male.

  “A letter—some advice, from the wife of Jules’ friend.” Yawning, Shepherd finished with, “Articles you enjoy could be translated….”

  Increasing the volume of her hum, Claire watched her mate’s eyes close. Snores were instant.

  His COM? She stole it. He could have it back after he slept more than three hours straight.

  One of the most beautiful nests an Omega might create when their Alpha was already in it came to life. Claire, humming so loud she would be hoarse later.

  He needed this.

  The man had been away for almost two full days. She knew he had not slept, that his focus had been on the situation with Jules.

  The sun rose, Claire tucked to the side of a sleeping giant. No tutors dared interrupt. Together, they dreamed until dusk.

  She bathed. The time spent on her unruly hair… recognizing how badly she needed a trim. How long had it been since she’d cut her hair? Ends crunching between her fingertips, she frowned.

  Thólos.

  She could think of that place now without vomiting, not that it didn’t sour her stomach all the same.

  Making a mess of it, Claire tried to tidy up the split ends by herself. Even with jagged edges, she looked in the mirror and saw something that mattered.

  She saw herself.

  Green eyes. Scars that would be covered by a pretty dress. Black hair. Pale skin. Cowardice.

  “My name is Claire O’Donnell. I am the wife of Shepherd O’Donnell. Our son’s name is Collin. And he would have been two this month.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, she looked herself in the eye and stated, “I am going to a movie. Everything will be okay.”

  When Shepherd woke, she was already in the kitchen. Trying out another concoction that might make his green sludge taste less like rotting garbage.

  Smiling at a man with his hair sticking in every direction, Claire circled the counter to press a kiss to his lips. “Shepherd O’Donnell, would you like to take in a film with me tonight?”

  The man’s agitation… Claire was used to it. She even smirked when he accused, “You took my COM.”

  With obnoxiously wide eyes, Claire teased, “I called Dr. Osin and enacted Project Baker.”

  Rumbling, Shepherd narrowed his eyes. “You should not go through my COM.”

  “Is that really what date night was called?” Cackling from the look on his face, tears came to Claire’s eyes. “I was joking!”

  Handing him a large glass filled with the most unappetizing shade of green Claire might imagine, she said, “Bottoms up. We are expected within the hour.”

  Because it needed to be said, Claire explained to the man chugging down a meal that no blend of fruit or herbs might ever make palatable, “And to be clear, I am not talking to anyone but you.”

  One stiff hand hosted a chilled coupe sparkling with a pink drink. Claire’s other palm gripped tightly to Shepherd’s hand, their fingers interlaced. Sweating profusely, she hid her body behind her mate’s mass and peered around him to soak up the quaint cobblestone courtyard.

  Pruned shrubbery outlined the formal shape of the space. Wrought iron tables displayed an array of snacks. Cushioned chairs had been prepared for relaxing.

  Candles flickered, casting soft light that warmed the evening air.

  Not that the courtyard needed warmth. Greth Dome was downright balmy, sticky hot with the season as if the sweltering temperatures of the jungle seeped in—just as snow had once seeped into Thólos.

  Yet it was always darker in this new place.

  Endless fields of glittering white had made the sun shine so bright in Thólos’ eternal winter. Sometimes… it had been blinding.

  Greth was softer on the eyes, despite the bright colors favored by its people.

  “Little one, where would you like to sit?”

  Speechless, aware of the irony, considering it had been her decision to contact Dr. Osin and order the event. Claire didn’t even know where to begin.

  Her husband had planned this down to the last twinkling bulb. She could never pretend it was not extremely pretty and very sweet.

  “I think I’d like to stand.” Claire took a sip of the drink in her hand. Pulling back from the coup with a look. “This has alcohol.”

  “It’s a local drink, a Caipirinha, with muddled strawberries.”

  Tongue tracing a bottom lip sweetened by sugar, Claire admitted, “I can’t even remember the last time I had a cocktail in public.”

  All male, grumbly with the pleasure of seeing his female enjoy herself, her husband swelled with pride. So much so, he might actually have burst out of his shirt.

  Teasing, she held the drink up in offer. “Want to try it?”

  “Yes.” Shepherd fell upon her, taking her lips to suck them clean and then delving deeper to capture every last trace of sugar.

  He kissed her as if he didn’t care who might see or how vulnerable they might be when distracted. And then he kissed her some more.

  Bending her back with the heat of his kiss, he drank deep—filled her with breath when she gasped for air, and invaded her mouth with his tongue.

  Claire… had never been kissed in public. Modest and blushing when he pulled back to take the drink from her hands and swallow.

  Suddenly shy, she glanced at the party of strangers to see who might be watching. “I feel like I’m being courted.”

  “Hmm.” The man who had woken in her perfect nest and drank his gross dinner grinned.

  Shepherd grinned.

  “Stop that! You’re making me nervous.”

  “I love you, little one.”

  Rubbing at her breastbone, Claire offered a very distracted reply, “Yeah, yeah, I love you too. But please stop that. It’s not safe.”

  Because if she dripped slick, terrible things would follow. An Omega could never, ever, be aroused in public. She had not committed to this to inspire a bloodbath.

  “Claire.”

  She’d heard him speak, but she was still checking every corner, praying nothing might drip from her vagina to scent the gusset of her panties.

  “Claire,” Shepherd called to her with more force. “Take a deep breath.”

&n
bsp; She did on command, not that she would do anything else.

  “You are safe.”

  Panting, already pulling away, she said, “I think we should leave.”

  “Take another deep breath.”

  Was he out of his mind? They were outside. In a courtyard. All courtyards in Thólos had been brimming with decomposing corpses. Bodies would have been swinging from the pretty trees. “Will you please stop!”

  “One more breath. Hold it and count to six.”

  Tears were running down her face, Claire not even sure why. “Gods, Shepherd. We have to go home—”

  “Please don’t be afraid. The other women here will look to you, and they are frightened too.”

  Unable to bring herself to glance beyond the hands pressed to her face, Claire sobbed.

  How had she become this pathetic woman? This frightened rabbit who jumped every time a glass clinked or soft laughter filled the air?

  What happened to the woman who had trimmed her hair, who had styled it similar to a fashion she had seen on her COMscreen?

  What happened to the fierce mother of Collin who had survived Thólos?

  “You’re doing well, little one.”

  Embraced in the massive arms of her mate, she ruined the front of his pressed shirt. Not that he would ever care. Shepherd just purred for her. He gave her time.

  When the panic began to pass, she pulled away, embarrassed and certain she would never leave her house again.

  But a smiling older Omega pressed a fresh drink to her hand, kissing her on both cheeks in a style Claire had only seen in the programs on her COM.

  And Shepherd had let her.

  Hand shaking so hard the ice hit the side of the glass, Claire took a sip.

  It did taste like strawberries.

  And sugar.

  Lime.

  And a sort of liquor that had never slipped over her tongue before.

  Huge thumbs swiped over pink cheeks, Shepherd praising her bravery and unabashed about how loudly he did so.

  The shift was not immediate, but it was measurable.

  Feeling came back to her fingers, then her legs. Thankfully, her dress left her arms and back bare, her sweat hardly making a mark.