I can’t explain it, but Sinclair’s tender care upsets me more than his anger would. It took me a while to recover—as the fog of shock lifted and the safety and security of being with Sinclair thawed my frozen senses, my emotions slowly returned. Just not the ones I expected.

Do I want him to be angry? Why? Because his apparent lack of concern about my defiance hurts? Because I feel bad about breaking his rules and want reassurance they weren't arbitrary? Because I'm so angry with myself for what happened tonight that I deserve punishment?

I don't have the answers, though I suspect all my theories hold some truth. Either way, I find myself picking a fight instead of letting him comfort me.

Sinclair sighs, but doesn't release me. "I didn't want to worry you," he explains, his handsome features a hard mask. "There's only been one other attack, and you know I've been worried about your stress levels."

"Is that why you were called away the other day?" I ask; his sudden disappearance from the kitchen now makes sense.

"Yes," he confirms. "It was horrible. Almost a dozen dead in broad daylight, and twice as many injured. They didn't smell like the wolves who attacked you tonight, but I'm sure they were hired by the same person."

"The prince?" I guess, shifting the ice pack as my fingers go numb.

"That's right," Sinclair nods. "I've been searching for them, but I think he's protecting them."

"Will you search for the ones who attacked me tonight?" I murmur, surprised by my sudden bloodlust. It must be my maternal instincts—I've never wished anyone dead before, but I want Sinclair to destroy those wolves.

Sinclair nods. "I will hunt them down and tear them to pieces," he snarls, revealing more of his wolf than intended.

I'm amazed I'm smiling at such a macabre thought. Frankly, I'm amazed I can smile at all so soon after the attack, even if it's a somber grin. The smile pulls on my cut, turning into a grimace of pain. "Ow!"

Sinclair tsks. "Poor, vicious darling," he croons, resting his forehead against mine and petting my sides.

"Is it terrible that I wish them harm?" I whisper, gazing into his green eyes.

"Of course not," Sinclair promises, smiling. "You really are becoming more like a wolf every day."

A painful pang blooms in my chest. He seems pleased by my "wolfish" behavior. Perhaps he's happy the pup is growing, but it feels like he disapproves of my humanity—as if he wants me to be a wolf and will seize any opportunity to reinforce that. I'm lost in thought, but Sinclair pulls my focus back.

Framing my face in his hands, careful to avoid my bruise, he asks, "Would you like to tell me why you snuck out tonight—after everything we went through the other day?"

I peek up at him. "Am I in a lot of trouble?"

"Just answer the question, Ella," he admonishes. Part of me wishes he'd say I'm in trouble—it would mean he hasn't given up on me. But his stoicism worries me; his grim contemplation makes me fear he might decide I'm not worth the hassle and void our deal—taking the baby.

"I just needed a night away," I say, gesturing to our surroundings. "I needed to feel human again, and I thought it would be fine since we were in human territories. I didn't know about the other attack."

"Ella, the other attack isn't what matters," Sinclair rumbles sternly. "I told you it was dangerous to be out without guards. You promised you wouldn't do this again, and you broke your word immediately. What were you thinking? After everything I've told you about the prince, after everything at stake in this campaign."

"But it's your campaign, not mine," I argue. "And I've turned my entire life upside down to support it. At the very least, I deserve a night to myself."

"I will gladly give you a night to yourself," Sinclair agrees, "but if you're going to be out in the city, you need protection!"

"I don't want to have to ask permission to leave the house!" I burst out. "I shouldn't need babysitters to go to the park or grocery store. I don't know how anyone lives with those restraints, Dominic."

"I understand better than you think, Ella," Dominic confesses. "I don't like having to drag around half a dozen people either, but it's necessary. Think about the baby; if not for yourself, please take these precautions for the pup."

I push off the counter, shaking my head as I stride past him. "I don't think you realize how much you're asking of me—how difficult this is. A month ago I led a completely different life, and now everything has changed. Everything I thought I knew was wrong. The only thing I have left is my independence, and now you're demanding that too!"

"I don't want to take your independence or your freedom, Ella," Sinclair insists. "And I know this isn't how you wanted to have your baby—but it isn't exactly what I wanted either. I always imagined I would share the experience with my mate, that we'd be a family forever. I never imagined contracts, custody, and fake relationships." The statement cuts me to the core. "So we can make the best of our situation, or we can let it divide us. I think we should be a team. I want our baby to have two loving, united parents, don't you?"

"Of course I do," I murmur, tears springing to my eyes. I need to leave before I cry. "And I think we'll get there. But right now I just need some time to myself. I'm going to sleep in my rooms tonight."

I turn to leave, but Sinclair's deep voice stops me. "I don't think that's a good idea."

I pause, turning back. "Why not?"

"You've had a traumatic experience; you might have nightmares," he reasons.

I roll my eyes. "I've had traumatic experiences before and I've always gotten through them just fine—nightmares or not."

"I understand that, but you don't have to get through it alone anymore," Sinclair counters, his footsteps behind me.

"And I understand you might not want to let the pup out of your sight, but if you want me to avoid stress, then I need some space to process this," I reply, trying to empathize.

I can hear him searching for another excuse before he gives up and commands, "Ella, I'm sorry, but I can't allow that."

"Excuse me?" I scoff, turning to face him.

He's standing a few feet away, clenching and unclenching his fists. His behavior suggests this has nothing to do with my nightmares or his possessiveness. I sense he's hiding something, like the first rogue attack.

Narrowing my eyes, I say, feeling an inexplicable wave of intuition, "What aren't you telling me?"

"What do you mean?" Sinclair questions impassively.

"I mean you were already in a security frenzy before the attack. Unless you're a tyrant determined to control me, these precautions must mean you have another reason to be afraid. I don't think you're a tyrant—despite your sometimes spot-on impression—so what aren't you telling me?" It seems so obvious now. I don't know how I missed it.

"Fine," he sighs, looking as though he's about to deliver my death sentence. "I'm sorry, Ella, but there really was someone in your rooms the other night."