It was much easier to hate Sinclair when he was overbearing and bossy. I'm not sure what to make of this kindness; it seems too good to be true—a guaranteed red flag. Growing up as an orphan taught me that if something seems too good to be true, it is.

At the same time, I can't bring myself to pull away. He's holding and rocking me more tenderly than I ever imagined. Has anyone ever held me like this? Mike certainly didn't, and while Cora always comforted me, this feels different. I'm acutely aware of Sinclair's touch—far from sisterly. I feel scalded by his heat, wondering if werewolves have higher body temperatures than humans.

Suddenly, the thought strikes me: if Sinclair is half this attentive with his children, my baby will be overflowing with love. He'll make a wonderful father—assuming this isn't an act to manipulate me. Then again, he's always been kind to Jake and Millie; his love for children is obvious.

A wave of jealousy washes over me—jealousy for the woman who will become his mate. She'll be incredibly lucky. It's clear his past fertility struggles weren't due to his sperm. They'll probably have many children, giving my baby siblings. I might not have a large family, but my child will be part of one—and that's what matters, right? So why this bitterness?

I suspect a she-wolf might feel threatened by my baby, preventing one of her pups from becoming Sinclair's heir, but I know that's not it. I snuggle closer as my tears subside, and Sinclair purrs, sending a shiver down my spine. Why is it so hard to pull away? Why does the thought of leaving his arms fill me with disappointment?

I can't be attracted to him. I can't. It's a recipe for disaster!

"What are you thinking about?" His deep voice startled me. I blush, and when I look up, he's smirking knowingly.

I try to concoct an excuse, settling on a half-truth: "I was thinking I want more ice cream."

Sinclair frowns, eyeing my empty bowl. "I think that's excessive. The doctor said you need a nutritious diet."

The baby doesn't agree, and neither do I. My craving isn't satisfied, and no one's ever dictated my diet. "I'm an adult, Sinclair. I can manage my own health."

"I've asked you to call me Dominic," he reminds me, his piercing gaze locking onto mine.

"My point remains the same, regardless of what I call you," I retort, finally pulling away. I slide off his knee and stand. His collar is soaked with my tears, and though he's kneeling, he's almost my height. I place my hands on my hips, resisting the urge to cower under his stern expression.

"What if I make you something else? What's your favorite dish?" he asks.

Rolling my eyes, I grab my bowl and head for the door. My fingers are inches from the handle when a strong arm circles my waist, lifting me. "Hey! Put me down!"

"Such a naughty little human," Sinclair chides, setting me on the couch.

"You said I was free to go wherever I wished," I remind him. "I want to go to the kitchen."

"You may go to the kitchen," he agrees, "but not if you're only going to eat ice cream. That baby needs more than sugar and fat to grow strong."

This feels increasingly childish. I'm demanding sweets when I know it's not best, but I can't control these cravings. The baby wants what it wants, and my hormones are overpowering. They're stronger than any PMS or mood swing I've ever experienced; I feel like a different person. I'm a mature adult, I raised myself and Cora, even though she's older. So why am I crying because I'm not getting my way?

Calloused fingers stroke my cheek, drawing my attention to Sinclair. "Has no one ever cared enough to set limits?" he asks, his tone genuinely sympathetic.

"I'm an orphan, remember?" I snap, my voice thick with emotion. "No one has ever cared for me—not the way you mean."

"Well, that changes now," Sinclair declares firmly, leaving no room for argument. "I'll be back in a minute."

I try to compose myself, grappling with this strange new relationship and my confusing feelings. My body responds to him like never before—it's as if I've awakened from a long sleep—but is it just the baby? Surely, if Sinclair and the pup share a mental link, I must be affected too.

I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss his return. He carries a tray, setting it down. Despite my contrariness, my impulse to reject it vanishes when he lifts the cloche to reveal macaroni and cheese with broccoli—not exactly healthy, but far better than ice cream. And it's my absolute favorite childhood dish.

"How did you know?" I ask, astonished. He couldn't have learned this from the baby. It's not a craving, but a personal fact few know.

"I have my ways," Sinclair replies slyly, offering me a fork.

I accept it, wondering again about this mysterious man…wolf. There's so much I don't understand—things unrelated to being a werewolf, things about his human side.

"What happened between you and your mate?" I ask, unsure if it's appropriate, but deciding to take a chance. "When you said not all fated mates are good fits, were you talking about yourself?"

Sinclair blinks, hesitant at first, but after a moment he sighs and sits beside me, leaning forward. "Yes," he admits, watching me intently as I take a bite. I moan with pleasure, and an unreadable emotion flickers in his green eyes. "Lydia was beautiful, intelligent, and incredibly calculating. I don't know if there was ever true love, or just the bond. We married becausethat's what you do. I knew she'd make a good Luna, and I wanted a family. I wanted to give her everything—that's how it is with mates, even when feelings are complicated, you feel compelled to make them happy."

"Unfortunately, what Lydia wanted was a baby," Sinclair continues grimly. "And when I couldn't give her one, she left me for another Alpha—without a second thought. In the end, I'm not sure if she loved me, or my money and power. She was materialistic, and the status of Luna wasn't worth much without an heir."