Corrupted (Alpha's Claim Book 5) by Addison Cain (read more books txt) 📕

fact. But I will say, if my suspicion is correct, he will never return to Greth.”

What was a girl to say to a mass-murdering tyrant who lost what might be the closest he would ever have to a friend? “I am sorry, Shepherd.”

In a very human gesture, the man rubbed his face, closing his eyes as he drew in a deep breath. When he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, Claire grew unnerved.

Only once had she seen Shepherd emote on this level, the night he handed her to another Alpha so she might be transported safely away from him. The night he was going to give his life for her and their son.

“Shepherd, whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it.”

His lashes parted, gray eyes liquid—as if they stung. “I’m thinking that Collin would have celebrated his second birthday this month.”

A pained sound hitched in Claire’s throat, her heart splitting right down the middle.

But it was as if the Alpha didn’t see her grief at the mention of their dead son, he was too wrapped up in his own. “Every day, I watch Followers’ families thrive. I watch them play with their children. And I envy them. They live, and I cannot even entice my perfect Omega, my beautiful wife, to attend a film with me. I have never known normal, Claire O’Donnell. And I grasp that you will punish me for the rest of our lives for my sins. The irony is not lost.”

With that, he left her in the garden alone. Entering their home as if he desired to be alone.

11

Bernard Dome

Wiping his lips on a snowy-white napkin, Jacques set starched fabric to the matching tablecloth. Fingers lingering over the formality, the Alpha male pensive, he said, “Brenya, I know it must appear to you that these complications are insurmountable, but I assure you, they are not.”

Brenya spun a forkful of Pâtes d'Alsace on her spoon, just as she had seen Jacques demonstrate when the pasta course arrived. The action was… soothing. The twist of the wrist, the mechanical requirement to use two utensils. Like tools fine tuning a sprog.

Yet somewhat exacerbating.

Before reassignment to Central, Brenya had never participated in a meal that required more than one utensil.

The little tools in her hand, solid gold and weightier than the sporks supplied to the masses, offered a semblance of what she missed. At least, she had slowly come to grasp that she could simulate the fine detail work of her true vocation in pointless everyday exercises.

Work within the confines of your station and situation.

The fork, for example: gold was soft, malleable at low temperatures, a poor choice for any tool, but an excellent choice for improvising in a pinch. That was fascinating, in a sense. Each tine might be reworked to create something beyond a food stabbing device. The curve-shaped length of the utensil was similar to that of a lever. She could pry open generally anything that didn’t require much force.

With that fork and a strategy, she could dissect Jacques' bedroom in a day. Considering that he always left the dinner course out on the patio setting where he preferred they share their evening meal, she had access to two forks. Two knives. Two spoons.

Gold conducted electricity extremely well. This sample in her hand wasted on something used for food. Had she the ability to draw out the metal, enough wire could be created to build… well… lots of things.

Outside of her specific assignment, improvising was frowned upon in Beta Sector, yet she had a knack for imagining what might be. Not that she had ever told any of her sisters or friends. Brenya saved such things for work. Like the time during an emergency descent when she had saved an entire loose panel from crashing down the Dome. Had it fully broken free, the weighty thing would have done catastrophic damage. Yet while others braced against the glass by her side, Brenya used her suction grip bars as if they had been intended to fortify two panels and not bear her weight.

Which was strictly forbidden when making the climb.

Protocol, focus, process, acceptance.

There had been no fanfare when the panel was saved. The highest praise she received for thinking on her feet had been the utter lack of mention of her breach of procedure. There had been no write up.

George had even smiled at her when they were alone to talk over the daily status report.

How strange it was not having him in her ear, the pair of them working as one to assure the comfort and safety of all.

But Brenya had breathed outside air, become Omega, harmed him by association, and had no one to share such thoughts with anymore.

It would have been better if that panel had fallen and left growing cracks all the way down the Dome. At least then, the city would know that the air outside smelled sweet, that the virus had moved on. That they could go outside and see butterflies. That paranoia was unnecessary, and a new life could begin.

The abandoned cities could be reclaimed by those with the drive to find what the world offered.

Clearing his throat, Jacques tried again to solicit her attention. “It has been four days, mon chou, since your tea with Annette. You have had nothing to say on the topic.”

Responding automatically, Brenya continued to swirl a fresh bite for a stomach that starved no matter how much it ate. “The tea was a blend of ginger, turmeric, and rosehip. Honey was added. Something of a Centrist tradition to acknowledge that Alpha mates are cruel.”

The male settled both of his hands upon the small table they shared, leaning forward, before he asked, “You believe I am cruel?”

“I have no perspective to make such a judgment. Ancil is the only other male in Central I have seen outside of the state dinner in which Annette was poisoned with Beta rations. I would need more than two variables to make a reasonable assessment.” Honey eyes looked