A crash sounds upstairs—the second one today. I groan, burying my face in my hands. I honestly don't want to know.

"Dominic?" My mate calls, her voice laced with a request for help. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring her for… just one minute. "Dominic!"

"Seriously," Roger murmurs, glancing toward the door. "What were you thinking, letting her put this insane plan into action?"

I drop my hands and glare at my brother. "Ask me that again when you're mated," I retort, steeling myself as I leave the room. Roger remains silent, but I feel his gaze on me. I ignore it.

"Ella?" I call from the bottom of the stairs. Her stairlift is at the top; she must be up there.

"Dominic!" Her faint voice, tinged with relief, reaches me. "Can you help? I'm… stuck." I sigh and climb the stairs.

Three days. Three days she's had her wheelchair and stairlift, and while I'm pleased to see her spirits raised, it's been a nightmare. Three days of watching her zoom around, crashing into everything I own. I've already imagined six thousand ways this could go wrong—Ella sliding off the stairlift, Ella somehow running herself over, Ella crashing through the banister…

And you'd think I was kidding, or exaggerating, but…

Reaching the top, I find her wedged behind a potted fern in the corner. "How did you even do this?" I ask, exasperated.

She offers a bright, if embarrassed, smile. "I don't know," she shrugs. "I just… went forward, and it was there…"

I sigh—my three hundredth sigh of the day—and lift the plant, freeing her. She zooms backward, grinding potting soil from the plant into my carpet. I sigh again. Three hundred and one.

"What are you even—" I begin, but she's already gone, waving as she heads down the hall toward our bedroom.

"Things to do!" she calls, waving over her shoulder. "Go back to work, I'll catch up later!"

I shake my head, following her into the bedroom, eager to put a stop to this. "Ella," I demand, striding in after her. "This has to stop—I'm going insane with worry—"

"What!" she exclaims, appalled, swiveling her chair to face me. "Why are you worried?"

I pause, staring at her, my mouth agape.

"What?" she demands, pouting. "Tell me!"

I shake my head. "Ella, in the past three days, you've broken hundreds of dollars' worth of ceramics alone—"

"Ceramics," she mutters, waving dismissively. "We can buy new pots. Who cares?"

"Ella!" I insist, and she snaps her gaze to me. I groan and wipe a hand down my face. "Sweetheart, you know I love you…"

She cocks her head, sensing a "but" coming. I oblige. "But," I continue, "baby, you're the… you're the worst wheelchair driver I've ever seen. I seriously don't even know how you got your driver's license, you are just so bad at—"

"What!" she screeches. "I am amazing at this! What are you talking about?!"

"Baby," I plead, placing a hand on my heart. "Please believe me—and I love you—but you are awful at this—"

She laughs, and I can't help but laugh with her. It's so ridiculous. But I'm grateful she finally sees my point. Now I can convince her to give it up—

"You're just jealous," she asserts, giving me a sly grin.

My jaw drops. Jealousy hasn't even entered the equation. "Ella, seriously," I begin, but she interrupts.

"Seriously!" she exclaims. "If I were bad at this, could I do this?"

She spins her chair, lifting one wheel off the ground. My stomach drops as I lunge forward, desperate to prevent her from tipping over, but she laughs as the chair rights itself, zooming out of my reach.

"Don't do that!" I gasp.

"What!" she counters. "I'm fine—this chair can't tip over, it's built into the design—"

"If anyone can manage it," I caution, "it's you. Ella, please."

"Dominic," she sighs. "Don't you think you're being a little overprotective? I mean, sure, I get stuck behind a potted plant or two." She shrugs. "So what? I'm fine." Her bright smile warms my heart. It's good to see her cheerful and engaged again. That's why I let this go on as long as I did, but honestly? It's enough.

She thinks I didn't notice how miserable she's been. She thinks she hid it from me to let me work. But I noticed—of course I did. I could sense her misery, feel it in my bones. But I also felt her pride each morning as she sent me off to work. That pride—the idea that she was doing this for the baby, for our people—was what kept her going. Her misery was, in a way, an act of service.

So I went, spending as little time as possible on work and the rest of my time with my troublesome rose-gold mate.

I shake my head, staring at her smiling face. My sweet, clever girl. How do I help her find balance?

"For today, then, Ella," I say calmly, extending a hand. "Enough chair for the day… my nerves are shot. Please. For me. I'll come to bed—we'll watch a movie—"

She pretends to consider it, tapping her chin as I step closer, intending to lift her. But at the last second, a mischievous gleam enters her eyes.

"Nope!" she quips, zooming past me.

"Ella!" I cry, chasing after her.

"If you want to stop me," she calls, "you'll have to catch me!"

Something in me sparks at this taunt. I launch myself after her, to the top of the stairs where she's already on the stairlift, buckling herself in.

Seeing me, she lets out a laugh and presses the button frantically. Luckily, it's slow. I catch her easily.

"Oh no you don't," I say, pressing the emergency stop button. She laughs, beating her fists playfully against me as I unbuckle her and lift her into my arms.

From the corner of my eye, I see Roger peeking from the office, looking at us like we're crazy. I ignore him, carrying my mate into the bedroom and laying her on the bed. I climb onto the bed as well, effectively using my body to keep her still.

"Big brute Alpha," she pouts, poking me in the chest. "Not letting me have any fun."

Looking down at my gorgeous mate, her full lips pouting, her breasts heaving, her rose-gold hair spilling around her… I'm instantly aroused.

"You can have fun," I growl, lowering myself closer to her. "You just can't reenact Grand Theft Auto in our house."

"I'm good at it," she whines, crossing her arms. "You're terrible at it," I murmur, mimicking her voice. "And you're forbidden from using the chair again until I can get my dad over to give you lessons."

"Forbidden?" she smirks, noting my arousal. "And what will you do if I… break the rules?"

"Punishment," I snarl, bringing my mouth close to hers, "will be swift. And without mercy." I slide my hand down her body, cupping her buttocks.

Suddenly, her mouth is on mine, pulling me down to her. She moans, and I fall to my side, ever-conscious of the baby.

Our kiss deepens, and she wraps her legs around me, her teeth grazing my lip.

"Sinclair," she gasps, pulling back, fear in her eyes. "I—I think we should stop."

Panting, I pull back, horrified at myself. I nod. "I'm—I'm sorry, sweetheart—"

"No," she says, smiling. "It's okay—it's wonderful—I just…" she bites her lip. "If we go any further, I don't know if I'll be able to stop. And the baby…"

I groan, covering my face. She's right. I nod, feeling guilty. God damn it, she's just so… I can't help wanting to touch her, feel her—hell, bury myself inside her, whenever she's around.

Ella presses against me, resting her head on my chest. We stay like that for a while, her fingers lightly tracing my stomach. I wish, despite myself, that she'd let her hand drift lower…

"It's going to be a long three months…" she murmurs, shaking her head.

"Two and a half," I breathe. "Two and a half, kid, okay? And then you're out of there. And then I'm taking my mate back."

Ella laughs, kissing my chest.

Two and a half months, I think. That's it.

And then all of my dreams would come true.