She would steal things, because she liked to. She would let people down, because it made her remember she was strong.
And some other poor fool locked in a room with screens would watch her every move until an accident cut her down in her prime.
Her useless, pointless, vapid self wiped away as if she had never crossed the ocean on a transport and abandoned her home to desiccate in the arctic snows.
What was she really going to do there? Live in her house while everyone died? Run out of food after a few years of hermit-hood? She was going to wait for a savior to clean up the mess and immerge chubby cheeked and ready to wreak havoc?
She would have died, just like everyone else died. Just a little later.
Completely alone, without so much as a watercolor painting on her wall.
“I won’t help you invade another Dome, Shepherd.” Wow, had she really just said that?
The weight of his hand still on her shoulder, the man failed to acknowledge her statement. “Impress me, and you will have total control over Bernard Dome surveillance. Fully learn their language. Translation will only be offered by computer for three months. If you fail to attain fluency, these screens shut down forever. You will die in here, well fed, with clean water, withering and pathetic. Exactly how you would have died in Thólos.”
Her host hit too close to home with that zinger, the first-rate bitch who made her her rearing her beautiful head. “My sentence only carries five more years.”
She might survive that in solitary confinement. It’s not like this Dome was going to be ravaged, cracked, and infested with the virus. She could have made it five years in Thólos too. Though she’d had books and COMscreens. There had been sex toys and distractions.
Shepherd nodded once. “True. Yet, I never claimed that you would leave this room alive. In fact, I have ordered every last Follower to assure that you do not.”
Maryanne was not sure when she had looked away from that gray, terrible gaze. Only to look at more gray terrible monotony on the screen. Bernard Dome. “I suppose this is where I mention your mate.”
“Maryanne, you are a terrible person. You deserved the Undercroft. Yet I set you free all the same.”
She was terrible, through and through. Yet she was also wise enough to know that somewhere, someone loved her. “Claire would never forgive you.”
The magnetism of the man led her to meet his gaze again, right as the scariest Alpha male in creation stated coldly, “Claire would never know.”
One Alpha faced off against another, Maryanne rising from her seat to stand tall—her final stand. Words had never worked with this male, the male who had set her free from the Undercroft after unspeakable things had been done to her. Who had set her free to run havoc in Thólos after she begged at his feet for protection. The savior she had abandoned at first opportunity, because he was fucking crazy. The man who had destroyed her enemies and haunted her dreams.
Claire’s mate.
The ugliest, most ruthless motherfucker born to a dead world. A beast she had watched murder millions, Maryanne laughing until it wasn’t funny anymore.
A male who did not flinch when her forearm swept her workstation, sending instruments flying before she might button down real rage. “What more do you want from me, Shepherd?”
Never one for subtlety, a massive hand fit over the top of Maryanne’s skull—turning her gaze to a new illumined screen.
The new world of… nothing that already led her eyes to unfocus.
Because demeaning her seemed to be one of his greatest sports, Shepherd spoke to her in a tone that let her know precisely how much of a simpleton she was. “You are worthless as you are. So grasp this. Jules requested that I spare your life. Therefore, I keep you.”
Well, leave it to the ol’ creepy blue-eyed Beta. “Jules, huh?”
“Any allegiance you might have in those hollow bones belongs to him.” Shepherd flipped on another monitor, in such a way that it was utterly embarrassing to realize she could have turned them on herself at any time. “So I suggest that you pay attention to these screens and see what you have failed to notice in the last two days.”
No way! No way was Jules in a cell in some eerie foreign Dome!
There was something, something almost human in Shepherd’s statement. “Should he die, Maryanne, so shall you.”
Jules, the cryptic, nasty piece of shit that he was sat unmoving on the newly illuminated eleventh screen. Solitary in a cell that lacked even a toilet. A cell nowhere near as nice as hers.
Her Jules, her only tie to civilization.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.” Why in the heck was he even on foreign soil?
“You will report on the hour, every hour.”
“What about sleep?”
“Every hour until you can give me something worth keeping you alive. Apply your talents—”
“My Gods! Is that porn projected on his cell wall? What the…? Why are they showing him…? Wow… that Alpha could use some pointers. Did you see how—”
“It is a live feed, which you will find on screen seventy-two. Meet Jacques Bernard, the regent of Bernard Dome and his Omega, Brenya Perin. I would like to know why Jules’ tenure in their prison involves watching the Omega suffer.”
“Gross. Look at her face, she’s mangled.” Maryanne was already totally sucked in, speaking to herself when she muttered, “Someone get that girl a sandwich. Oh, and some backbone. Did you see that? She’s not even fighting anymore. Who treats their mate that way?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“It’s just wrong… she’s crying.”
“Every hour, Maryanne. On the hour. Or all the screens go dark, your food dries up, and all you will have left as you starve is the painting to remind you of how horrible you truly are.” And like that, he was gone.
Every hour, on the hour, she sent a report, unsure what Shepherd was looking for, but scandalized by what she found as she switched on more screens.
Bernard Dome was more fucked up than she was.
And that was saying a lot.
6
Bernard Dome
Two china teacups, their golden rims catching afternoon sunlight, sat on saucers so intricately detailed that Brenya stole a longing glance in their direction. There wasn’t much time, which left her with no opportunity to admire the mathematical precision of hand-painted patterns. Right there on a silver tray sat true engineering, crafted many centuries before the Red Consumption ravaged the world. Art sculpted, painted, and lacquered by persons—not a fabrication machine. A simple brush held by a master. A precious treasure.
Right there.
So fragile it was uncanny.
Yet, more fragile was the woman rising to greet her.
High ceilings, frescos of playful cherubs painted onto the opposite wall. Gold finishings, damask curtains, polished wood, the scent of fresh flowers. It seemed the perfect place, positioned, adorned, landscaped—if you will—to showcase the slumbering baby in an elegantly carved cradle just so.
The entirety of the room had been fashioned to draw the eye to chubby cheeks and long eyelashes. To the gentle snores of a tiny human.
As if Brenya might not notice the two Beta attendants who tried and failed to become part of the architecture.