It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date. The thought repeats endlessly in my head. I know Sinclair is only taking me out because I completely fell apart this afternoon. I’m still kicking myself, ashamed of my weakness and determined to prove myself to him. I spent an hour choosing my dress, finally settling on a little black dress that accentuates my figure and makes me feel strong and sexy—a far cry from my usual self.

After Sinclair’s makeup artists and hairdressers finish, I wrap a heavy winter coat around myself, slip on strappy stilettos, and take deep breaths before going downstairs. Sinclair waits at the bottom of the stairs, his emerald gaze sweeping up my bare legs and lingering on my coat, as if tempted to unwrap it and see what’s beneath. It’s amazing how overheated he can make me feel with a single glance—he’s already seen me naked, and it’s not like there are any real feelings involved anyway.

“Ready?” he asks, his deep voice making my heart skip a beat.

I nod shyly, and let him guide me out the door, his hand on the small of my back. But as soon as I step outside, I stumble back into Sinclair’s protective embrace. A sea of reporters is gathered outside the estate gates, cameras flashing and shouting for our attention. It’s exactly like the scene outside the King’s palace, only this is a random Tuesday evening—at the place I’m gradually calling home.

“Dominic?” I squeak.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, brushing his lips against my ear as he pulls me under his arm. “Your interview aired this evening; that’s all. Early feedback suggests you’re a hit.”

“You mean, they’re here because of me?” I whisper, praying I can walk gracefully in my heels and that Sinclair will catch me if I fall.

“That’s right.” He grins, waving at the reporters. “If you’re nervous, just take a deep breath. It’ll be over in seconds.”

I do as he says, and before I know it, I’m safely in the back seat of his limousine. “Do you ever get used to this?” I ask shakily.

“No,” Sinclair admits, “but it gets easier.”

“So, are you going to tell me where we’re going, or is it another surprise?” I ask, trying not to sound petulant.

“This time I’ll tell you,” Sinclair concedes, in a tone that suggests it’s a great sacrifice. “I think you’ve had a hard enough day.”

“Thank you,” I say primly, gazing at him expectantly.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s just so tempting.”

“Dominic!” I exclaim in exasperation.

He laughs. “Okay, okay. We’re going to a little French restaurant I know, and afterward we’ll go dancing at a popular shifter club.”

I’m practically bursting with curiosity. “Is shifter food very different from human food? Do shifters have their own dance styles?”

Sinclair smiles, and I wish I’d chosen to sit beside him instead of across from him. “We eat more red meat than humans—rarer steaks—but otherwise, it’s not so different.” A low rumble, somewhere between a purr and a growl, emanates from his chest. “And our dancing can be a bit more…sensual. But don’t worry, I’m looking forward to teaching you.”

Oh god. His intense focus and tone have my body heating up, and I have to squeeze my thighs together to relieve the sudden ache. It’s not a real date, it’s not a real date, it’s not a real date.

To my dismay, the reporters have followed us to the restaurant and are waiting when Sinclair helps me from the car. Their cameras flash as the hostess helps me out of my coat, capturing images of my dress and Sinclair’s ravenous expression. Despite their blatant observation, all I can focus on is Sinclair and his glowing green eyes.

Before I know it, he’s pulled me into his arms and kissed me. I’m sure it’s for the cameras, but I melt against him, letting him ravish me for all to see. My heart is hammering so hard when he releases me that I almost don’t hear him tell me how incredible I look. I’m in a daze as he guides me to a back table, trying to recall ever feeling so overpowered by lust. I’m a grown woman with a healthy sex life, but I can’t recall ever feeling like I’ll die if someone doesn’t make love to me in the next five minutes. But that’s exactly how I feel now.

“Ella?” Sinclair’s voice brings me back to the present. We’re seated, and a waitress stands beside him, watching me with an expectant smile. “Something to drink?”

“Just water,” I manage huskily, trying to compose myself.

“You still with me?” Sinclair teases a moment later.

I’m beginning to wonder if werewolf pheromones are extra potent on humans; the more time I spend with him, the more I feel drugged by desire. “Mhmm,” I murmur, my voice much higher than intended. “Do you have any recommendations?”

I was talking about the menu, but Sinclair’s sultry reply is, “I always recommend sitting side by side.”

“I don’t know,” I answer coyly. “It’s awfully warm in here; I wouldn’t want to overheat.”

“You do look a bit flushed,” Sinclair observes. “Should I have them turn up the air conditioning?”

“Then I’ll be cold,” I argue.

Sinclair arches a brow. “Then you’d better come over here so I can keep you warm.” It wasn’t a request.

I rise and move to the booth next to him, as he signals the waitress to lower the temperature. He slides an arm around me and purrs contentedly. “There, much better.”

Maybe for him. I’m squirming, painfully aware of the wetness between my legs. In hindsight, I can’t follow the logic that brought us here, but I’m not complaining. I feel safe near Sinclair, and the butterflies in my belly are fluttering wildly. It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date.

Of course, it only gets worse. Our intimate dinner turns into him hand-feeding me dessert, then leading me onto a darkened dance floor, our bodies pressed together, whirling through unfamiliar, seductive steps. I haven’t had any alcohol, but I feel completely intoxicated by Sinclair. The evening flashes before my eyes, and I spiral into desire: my world reduces to the feeling of his body against mine, his hands gliding over my waist and hips.

It’s a good thing Sinclair is so intimidating, or I might have made a move, and I’m not sure I could survive getting involved with this powerful wolf. My body might want him, but when my senses return, I’ll remember how completely mismatched we are. We could never be together, and indulging my physical desires can only lead to disaster.

I’m slowly beginning to suspect that Sinclair isn’t completely immune to me, but I know it could never be more than physical attraction on his part, and I’m not the sort of woman who can handle casual sex. I know I’ll catch feelings sooner or later, and then I’ll get my heart broken. Sinclair could never want me as more than an amusing distraction, and more importantly, I’m carrying his child. I have to be able to get along with him for the rest of my life, and I know I’m not what he wants.

I toss and turn until Sinclair loses his patience and pulls me close, spooning me and purring until I drift off. We went to bed late, but I wake up in the dark, a sense of dread washing over me.

Something is wrong.

There’s wetness between my legs, but not the slick desire from earlier. I reach down, and my fingers are stained with sticky, red blood.

Trying not to panic, I shake Sinclair awake. He groans and opens his eyes to slits, mumbling blearily.

“Sinclair, something’s wrong!” I whisper frantically. “I’m bleeding. I think…I think I might be having a miscarriage.”