Page 27 of Born to be Broken

The sharp edge of the man’s dead stare displayed more than enough. “Choose an Alpha surrogate for Miss O’Donnell.”

Rising from the chair, all the waves of provocation, the violence Shepherd had been restraining, flowed out in the simple phrase. “I would kill anyone who dared to touch her.”

Jules rebutted, unflinching, “Not anyone.”

6

The other Omegas probably thought she was insane, and maybe she was. At this point it didn’t matter anymore. Claire knew her time was almost up, that the group was starting to chafe at her presence, that her behavior was a threat to them.

Claire understood exactly what was happening; that was the very reason why it was so important she hurry.

With the city’s shops stripped clean of valuables, it wasn’t hard to find the ‘nonessentials’ useful for her ploy. With Shepherd in power, COMscreens and networks were beyond Claire’s reach but, like the book in her back pocket, paper had power.

A printed leaflet embossed with her image stared up at her; reproduced over and over again until no more paper could be found.

Nona had been brave enough to join her. To find the machines and make the copies… Through the madness, the old woman had not left her side, not once. Her friend had even helped as Claire created what would ruin her in the eyes of the world.

Senator Kantor had warned Claire of the consequences should anyone learn who she was to Shepherd—of the potential outcome should the resistance get their hands on her. The conversation had been burned into her memory, had carried her away again and again over the silent hours she walked the city.

There was no great hero to stand for what had once been Claire O’Donnell; even her own people found her useful only as a commodity.

So be it. If that was what she was to be, she would make them all eat it. She would sell herself, choose how to manipulate the product, before she was out of steam.

Claire was not a leader of men or a great orator. She was an Omega who enjoyed painting pictures for children, who once believed she had a future full of promise. Now she knew there would never be a loving mate or smiling children. Distorted and ruined, she was just a faceless statistic in a city full of nightmares and indifference. Well, not anymore. She had nothing left and nothing to hide. So Claire created the voice she’d lost, the last piece of resistance she could manage—something horrific from her weakness that could give others strength.

Nona had captured the brutality of the image perfectly.

Though the flyer was black and white, something about those large, enthralling eyes pierced brilliantly as the girl on the flyer stared forward. It was the profound expression of pain, the tracks of tears, the defiance, all balanced with the set of her mouth and the obvious cut in her lower lip. Claire stared out at the viewer over her shoulder, displaying the violence of her scabbed claiming mark—the grotesque thing still bruised like a rotting flower. Her chin was cocked high, her black hair pulled back so the damage to her throat was exposed. She was absolutely naked, the fullness of one breast round above thin ribs, the nipple just covered by the arm clasping her hair. The world would see her as she was: captivating and beautifully tragic.

It was her handwriting, the feminine script her final statement to Thólos:

I am Claire O’Donnell.

I am your mother, I am your sister, I am your daughter.

Look at me.

I am what you have done to yourselves.

I was pair-bonded to Shepherd against my will. I carry his child.

I fought back.

I fought back for you.

Each Thólosen who does nothing stands with evil. There are no excuses. Confront the abuse perpetrated on the streets, stand up to rape and violence.

Do not turn a blind eye again.

Do not make me stand alone.

Claire fled the warehouse as soon as the dark gave her cover, racing her own shadow like a wild thing. For a body that was strangely listless, she flew through the streets, sheaves of paper clasped to her breast.

It took all the dark hours of the night, multiple trips back and forth to gather more stacks of paper Nona handed off to her. The flyers were placed on the tops of buildings to blow in the icy wind like garbage through the streets, to continuously rain down on common areas where in only a few hours citizens would congregate.

Her portrait was like a virus, almost unnoticeable as it infected Shepherd’s system, her image blowing about like leaves.

When her body gave out and her vision began to blur, Claire dropped the last armful of flyers from the highest causeway she could reach. Once it was done, she crawled like a wounded animal into the nearest building. In a dark corner she collapsed, oblivious of where she was, and uncaring.