"Parenting classes? Already?" I asked in surprise. "I'm only a few weeks along."

"Yes, but we only have five months to prepare, and you don't know anything about shifter children," Sinclair replied easily.

I was sitting up in bed with a breakfast tray in my lap, while Sinclair sat in a bedside armchair, watching me like a hawk. It was the morning after the attack, and I hadn't been allowed to move a muscle, not even to vomit. I'd attempted to free myself from Sinclair's strong arms when we woke so I could rush to the bathroom, but he'd carried me instead—holding my hair and rubbing my back until I was finished. In fact, he'd been so attentive that he'd taken the day off work to stay with me, and now he was talking about attending our first birthing and parenting classes.

"Are shifter children all that different from human ones?" I asked, feeling a wave of anxiety.

"Well, they gestate much faster, so I'd expect unique developmental milestones during pregnancy and infancy. And there are certainly differences in ability and personality. All their senses are heightened from day one, and they'll need to learn about our ways and society—which means you do too," Sinclair reasoned.

I frowned. Suddenly, I felt completely out of my depth. My child was going to be a superhuman miracle, running circles around me. Would I even be able to keep up? Before I realized what he intended, Sinclair reached out and smoothed my wrinkled brow with his thumb, a kind smile on his face. "Don't worry, sweet Ella. This is why I want us to go to class, and we're a team, remember? I'll always be there to teach our pup the shifter side of things; all you have to worry about is loving him."

I smiled at Sinclair's tender assurances. It took me a moment for his last word to register. "You said 'him.' You did the same thing the night I was spotting—I forgot until just now," I said, eyeing him curiously. "Is that hopeful thinking because you need an heiror do you know something I don't?"

Sinclair smirked, grazing his knuckles over my cheeks. "I expect there are a few things I know that you don't," he teased. "But yes, it's a boy. I knew the moment I felt the mental link."

"Really?" I gasped, my hands instinctively moving to my flat tummy. Sometimes it still felt terribly surreal that there was actually a life growing inside me, and now—to think I had a son—it was almost too much to take in. Tears welled in my eyes, and Sinclair grinned, brushing them away with his thumb.

"Really," he confirmed. "We're going to have a little boy."

Before I could stop myself, I pushed the breakfast tray aside and threw myself at Sinclair, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and hugging him tightly. He caught me with a chuckle, squeezing me tightly and burying his face in my neck. He inhaled deeply, his warm lips close to my skin. "Are you smelling me?" I asked, amusement clear in my voice.

"So?" He laughed. "You smell me all the time."

"Yeah, but that's the baby," I reminded him, repeating the explanation he'd given me a hundred times.

"Well, I like the way you smell," Sinclair shrugged, nuzzling my hair. I waited for him to say it was because of the baby, but he didn't. Instead, he emitted a soft purr. "The baby likes it when we're close like this," he said. I realized our bodies were so tightly pressed together that he could undoubtedly connect to the child's consciousness. "He can feel us both, and our happiness."

"I wish I had a link to him like you do," I admitted, finally pulling away.

"Don't worry," Sinclair murmured. "I'll always be here to tell you what he's thinking and feeling." His hands slid from my body, and I felt a sudden rush of cold air. I almost wanted to cling to him again, but Sinclair was already standing. "Now hop to it, cuddlebug. Class is in an hour."

"Hey, you're good at that!" I exclaimed, looking at Sinclair's station. Our first assignment in parenting class was properly diapering an infant (using a doll, of course). Eight other couples joined us, all at varying stages of pregnancy. Having diapered many children during my nannying days, I was confident I could ace this part, but I wasn't prepared for Sinclair to complete the task faster and just as competently as I had.

He shrugged, the picture of humility. "In my line of work, you have to kiss a lot of babies."

I rolled my eyes. I highly doubted many politicians diapered the babies they kissed. In fact, I expected most probably delegated the less pleasant parenting duties to their wives—if they ever lifted a finger at all. "Maybe, but it's more than that, isn't it? I remember how great you were with Millie and Jake."

For some reason, Sinclair didn't want to take credit. Instead, a mischievous glint appeared in his eye. "Hey, how about we race?"

"That hardly seems fair; you have supernatural speed," I whispered, careful not to be overheard. Everyone here thought I was a wolf, and I was doing my best not to reveal my secret.

"Scared?" He challenged, waggling his eyebrows.

Another woman might have laughed off the taunt, but I'd never backed down from a dare. "Fine," I answered, narrowing my eyes. "You're on."

Sinclair flashed a wolfish grin. "Ready, set, go!"

I immediately began, simulating a diaper change—wiping, powdering, and securing the diaper. Naturally, Sinclair finished about ten seconds ahead of me. "Ha! I win!"

Before I could reply, the instructor approached, arms crossed. "Parenting is not a game, you two. Honestly, Alpha, I'd expect you to take this more seriously."

We straightened, feeling chastised. I was about to apologize when Sinclair pointed at me and said, "She started it!"

I gaped at him, and a tiny growl vibrated in my chest. I had no idea where the impulse came from—it was like that night at the campaign dinner. Before meeting Sinclair, I'd never growled. It occurred to me that this was probably foolish—wolves don't growl at their Alpha unless they want a beating. Still, Sinclair only smiled. He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, "You're lucky that was the cutest little growl I've ever heard in my life."

"Why? What would you have done if it wasn't?" I challenged.

"Keep it up, and you'll find out," he promised ominously.

"You deserved it; you threw me under the bus, and you know it," I said, trying to keep my tone stern, though inside I was a mess. I loved seeing Sinclair's playful side, and it seemed the more time we spent together, the more it emerged. It was nice to know he wasn't strong, tough, and terrifying 100% of the time—a strong protector was wonderful, but I wanted my baby to have a father who would play and have fun, too.

The instructor, having given up on us, moved on. Our amusement didn't last long. After diapers and CPR, we moved on to the birthing portion of the course, the last thing I wanted to think about. Like most expectant mothers, I was excited to meet my baby, but I dreaded the pain of labor. I knew it would be worth it, but I'd rather not dwell on it.

The instructor seemed to have no such sympathy, believing the best preparation was knowing every gory detail. Sinclair and I sat on a yoga mat, my body nestled between his legs, my back resting on his chest. At first, I supported my own weight, but I gradually leaned back, letting him support me completely.

The instructor stood before a chart displaying a baby curled in the womb. "The average werewolf baby is 9-12 pounds and 21-22 inches long—"

I stopped listening, trying to process this information. "Did she say 9-12 pounds?" I squeaked.

Sinclair stroked my belly. "Shifters are bigger than humans, remember?"

I shook my head. "No—no, I can't do this!" I whispered frantically. "I can't have a 12-pound baby! Delivering a small baby is terrifying enough; now you're telling me it's going to be the size of a butterball turkey! Nope, uh-uh, not happening!" I was well on my way to a panic attack, and my voice was getting louder. Other couples were turning to look at us, and if I didn't get it together quickly, I might not only have a very public breakdown but expose myself as a human, too.