We stayed up all night working and strategizing. A flurry of aides and several guards arrived, working with Sinclair to brief him and develop a plan for handling the press. I trusted my mate to manage that, focusing solely on Sarah as she was wheeled in on a gurney. Sarah was conscious but in considerable pain, and Cora and I went to her side immediately. Cora questioned the attending doctor and Sarah while I handed Rafe to Henry.

When Cora confirmed that Sarah's wounds were nothing I hadn't treated before, I took Sarah's hand. "I'd like to heal you, Sarah, if you'll let me," I said quietly, meeting her gaze.

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Go ahead," she said, attempting a grin that faltered as she winced, clutching her side where Xander had kicked her.

I exhaled sharply, hating that he'd hurt her again, and that I was the cause. But eager to help, I closed my eyes and concentrated, using my gift to heal my friend.

The healing was quick, and barely twenty minutes later I opened my eyes to find Sarah staring at me in awe. "That's incredible," she said. "I saw you work on Jessica, but feeling it?" "Better?" I asked. She laughed, marveling at the experience.

Things moved quickly. Sinclair signaled that he needed to speak with me. I nodded but first checked on Sarah and Jessica to ensure they were settled. When they hesitated about returning to their rooms—Xander had, after all, kidnapped them from there—I insisted they use one of the private rooms in the back of Sinclair's and my quarters, rooms we hoped to one day fill with our children.

They smiled at this idea, wanting to be near us. Cora took Jessica's hand as Sarah rose from the gurney and walked away, completely pain-free.

"Wow," the attending doctor said, his eyes wide. "What did you" "Another time," I sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We should talk, but another time." He smiled, still shocked and awed, and quietly left. I sighed, took Rafe back from Henry, and went to Sinclair's side, ready for whatever came next.

We worked until about three in the morning, preparing press releases and handling details. By the end, I'd tucked Rafe into his crib and fallen into bed, exhausted. I'd always thought it was an exaggeration when people said they fell asleep instantly, but having no memory of even lying down, I guess they weren't exaggerating.

I groaned, rolling over and glancing at the clock. My groan deepened when I saw it was only 7 a.m. Four hours of sleep—appalling.

"Morning, little Queen," my mate rumbled, and I turned toward him, frowning at the tablet on his lap.

"Dominic," I murmured, sitting up. "Did you sleep at all?" "A little," he said, stroking my hair. "I wish you'd slept more. What woke you?" "Anxiety, I guess," I said, moving closer and nodding toward the tablet. "What are they saying now?" Last night, the news had gone wild, showing footage of the event: me racing across the flagstones in wolf form, negotiating with Xander while he held a knife to Jessica's throat, leaping through the air again, my teeth bared, and finally, standing wide-eyed in the crowd, blood covering my front. It had been a frenzy, with no one knowing what was happening or how to react. Sinclair had been right—many people, especially humans, were upset by what they called the "wanton violence" displayed by the wolf kind.

While the criticism was directed at both Xander and me, the sight of a newly crowned Queen covered in a man's blood with his corpse at her feet wasn't ideal.

"I think," Sinclair said, smiling, "you're going to be pleasantly surprised." He handed me the tablet.

"What?" I frowned, confused, but he nodded toward the tablet. I looked down.

The baby fussed, sending a wave of need through our bond. I hesitated, but Sinclair got up, going to Rafe's crib to allow me to focus.

I sighed and concentrated, frowning at the headline: A Queen for the People. My frown deepened. What?

My eyes moved down, and I blinked in surprise. I recognized the byline: Tempest Bowers, the woman I'd met last night, whose daughters wanted chocolate. My mouth fell open as I began to read. The article was a stunning defense of my actions.

And Tempest? She'd done her homework.

My eyes scanned the tablet, seeing details of my life laid out for readers, wondering how Tempest had learned all this and finished the article by seven a.m. But as I read on and saw the number of people she interviewed, I realized she'd probably been working on this for a long time.

"Clever lady," I murmured, shaking my head. She addressed last night's violence, including Xander's death at my hands, without shying away from it. The opening paragraphs presented me as humans might see me: a cold-blooded murderer, overreacting to a situation that deserved more diplomacy.

But Tempest then shifted the narrative, detailing how Xander knew I was his niece but abandoned me to be raised in an orphanage, only to find me years later and violate me by impregnating me with the sperm of his choice. She focused on Xander for a few paragraphs, detailing his politics and his subjugation of Sarah, Jessica, and their mother.

Then, to my surprise, the story turned to me. It was a love story, of how Sinclair and I found each other despite Xander's plans and fell in love, how hard we worked to rid the nation of Damon—who wouldn't have been much better than Xander. She even mentioned Xander's attempt to kidnap Rafe, and my work in the refugee camps.

There were some guesses and hints about my magic, which wasn't exactly a secret, even if it wasn't common knowledge. I smirked at how well she'd guessed my abilities.

She didn't call me a magical, all-healing queen, but she detailed the incredible number of people—especially children—who left the refugee camps entirely healed of dreadful injuries and diseases.

Finally, Tempest returned to last night's events, asking the reader to reconsider. While it might seem like a woman brutally murdering an old man, she ended by asking: "What side, really, would your Queen take? I, for one, might prefer a fierce Queen who doesn't wait for bureaucracy to handle serial abusers who kidnap little girls, but instead tears their throats out and ends the issue there. Ella Sinclair isn't a politician, she's a woman who fights for her people, and heals them too. At least, those who deserve it."

"Damn," I said, lowering the tablet and looking at Sinclair, who smirked, holding the baby. I reached for Rafe, knowing he needed feeding. "Are people reading this? Do they believe her?"

"Shared on social media over a million times in the hour since publication," Sinclair said, handing me the baby. I smiled at Rafe, tugging up my shirt to feed him, but Sinclair placed a hand under my chin. I looked up at him.

"People are seeing you, Ella, for what you truly are," he said quietly. "I'm glad for that, and grateful. But I knew, eventually, they would." I smiled, tears in my eyes. "Do you really think so?" I asked, shaking my head.

He nodded, grinning. "Thanks to Tempest Bowers, they're seeing it faster than I thought they might." He stood, running a hand through his hair. "She really helped us out with this article." I laughed, turning back to Rafe when he protested with a hungry squeak. I quickly got him latched on, sighing as I felt him feed.

Then I looked back at my mate.

"Well? What do you send the woman who single-handedly saved your reputation?" I asked, grinning. "Like, a fruit basket?"