Ella

I peeked up at Sinclair from beneath my lashes, trying to gauge his frustration. He was clearly displeased by my defiance, but I also sensed relief at being home after a long day. I believed my words to his father had eased some of his guilt, making him more affectionate than moments before.

"I have to say, I missed you," I confessed, sliding my arms around his neck. "And you're the most handsome man in the world."

Sinclair flashed his fangs, chuckling darkly as he swung my legs up into his arms. "Flirting won't get you out of this, sweetheart," he murmured, stealing a kiss before mounting the stairs to his room. "Though it's very cute."

"Who said I was flirting?" I protested, leaning my head against his chest. "I really did miss you."

He carried me up to the fifth floor effortlessly. His supernatural strength probably made me feel as light as a feather. "I missed you too," he finally replied, entering his bedroom. "I hate being so far from home when these things happen."

"You must have had a rough afternoon," I observed, noting his drawn features and fatigue.

He dropped onto the sofa, holding me close. "Rough is an understatement," he sighed, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. I snuggled closer, wishing I could ease his burden. A contented rumble vibrated in his chest, and he smiled down at me. "It's getting better by the minute, though."

I tilted my face up, silently asking for a kiss. He arched a brow, and for a moment I feared rejection, but my worry was unfounded. As his lips met mine, electricity surged through me, igniting my nerve endings. It was as thrilling and all-consuming as the first time, and I quickly lost myself in the moment. Unfortunately, it ended too soon. Sinclair pulled back, leaning his forehead against mine and purring, "You can't distract me with kisses, little one."

He grimaced, and I knew I wouldn't like what came next. "Besides, kissing is a gateway drug. We have to try to stop." His arms tightened around me, as if his body disagreed with his words—or perhaps it was his wolf.

Adopting an innocent expression, I asked, "I have no idea what you mean. A gateway to what?"

He laughed, kissing me again despite his previous statement. This kiss was longer, proving how difficult it was to stop. My blood heated, and arousal intensified as his lips, teeth, and tongue worked their magic, making me forget everything but the present moment. "Goddess, why couldn't you just be a wolf?" he breathed when we parted.

A sharp sting pierced my elation, bringing me crashing back to earth. It was a crushing reminder that I wasn't enough for him—that I'd never be enough. Seeing the hurt on my face, Sinclair winced. "Oh, Ella, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"Yes, you did," I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady. "And you're right—I'm not."

He shook his head, looking miserable. "I didn't mean I wanted you to be anything other than what you are—just that it would mean we could actually be together, and I want that more than I can say."

Fighting back tears, I disentangled myself from his arms and moved to the cushion beside him. "It's okay, Dominic, you don't have to explain."

"I shouldn't have said it," Sinclair insisted fiercely, reaching for me as if to pull me back. He stopped when I stiffened, realizing I needed space. "I'm truly sorry, Ella."

I nodded, avoiding his gaze. Talking now would likely bring tears, and my arousal made it difficult to sit still. The last thing I needed was for Sinclair to know how excited I was after his hurtful words.

Sinclair's nostrils flared, and his eyes glowed. I wondered if he sensed my arousal, but a moment later he cursed and rose to his feet. "I'm going to shower. You should rest. We can talk about your bed rest tomorrow."

I watched him retreat, feeling strangely dismayed. Apparently, flirting and kisses didn't get me out of trouble, but acting wounded did.

Was that a good thing? It meant we'd avoided a confrontation, but a little voice inside wasn't pleased.

I understood that feeling. So why, in Goddess's name, was I so disappointed?

Third Person

Across town, in the hallowed halls of the royal palace, the Prince sat in darkness. The news of his wife's death was a blow, but the true outrage came with the medical examiner's report. While an autopsy hadn't been performed, the coroner had declared suspicious circumstances. A rash on her skin and a perfume bottle in her hand suggested topical poisoning.

This was unacceptable. The Prince wasn't overly sentimental, but his wife was his. The audacity of someone harming the Princess on his property was unforgivable. His rage spiraled. He would make whoever was responsible pay dearly.

He strode to the window, glaring at his city. His wolf paced in his mind, consumed by grief and fury. She hadn't been his fated mate, but he'd claimed her nonetheless. And though he had other lovers, the Princess was his favorite.

He could do anything he wanted with the she-wolves in his bed—regardless of their desires. But none responded as perfectly as his wife. She cried, screamed, and never resisted in exactly the way that pleased him.

As he stood there, aroused by memories of her pleas for mercy, a shaft of light reflected in the window. The door opened, revealing a woman's silhouette.

He recognized Lydia. "How did you get in here? I told my guards not to disturb me," he growled.

"I have my ways," Lydia shrugged, entering the dim study.

"What do you want?" the Prince demanded.

"To offer my help," Lydia replied, adopting a gentle tone that didn't suit her. "I know what it's like to lose someone."

"Then you should know it's too soon," the Prince growled. "It hasn't even been twelve hours."

"Perhaps, but I didn't think you'd appreciate me keeping my information to myself," Lydia answered. "I know who killed the Princess."

The Prince surged to his feet. "Who?"

"Dominic," Lydia replied, barely suppressing an eye roll.

The Prince paused, unconvinced. "Why would he? He knows this will harm his campaign."

"I don't think it's about the campaign," Lydia suggested slyly. "It's payback. You've been trying to kill his mate, haven't you?"

The Prince narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"

"Because I'm not an idiot. Neither are you—it's exactly what I'd do in your shoes," Lydia said.

"So you're guessing," the Prince observed. "Are you guessing about Dominic, too? How do I know he's behind this?"

"Because he threatened to kill me—his fated mate—over her, and I never touched her," Lydia explained.

"But why her? Why not come after me directly?" the Prince demanded, admitting to himself that few others would have the motive, even if he didn't understand the full picture.

"He won't risk the election. He thinks stealing the throne by force will cause the Alpha Council to unseat him, like they're doing to your father," Lydia explained.

The Prince snorted. Sinclair and his father were alike; they craved power but weren't willing to do what was necessary to keep it. "And how do you expect to help me?" he asked, eyeing Lydia curiously.

"I know things about Dominic and the Sinclair family. Their secrets, their weaknesses, their way of thinking. I'll tell you everything—for a price."

"And what price is that?" the Prince inquired.

"Protection," Lydia stated simply. "Keep me safe, and I'll ensure you win this election."

The Prince nodded. "You have a deal."