When we reach the forest edge, where the ceremony is to begin, I'm wearing a shimmering pearl-colored dress that seems spun from moonlight. Its thin straps barely support the flowing fabric, which plunges between my breasts, hugs my waist, and cascades into a wide skirt with a graceful train. It's utterly inappropriate for the cold weather, but a plush black fur cape billows down my back, and Sinclair's warmth is a comfort on my left side. His arm rests heavily on my shoulders, and I'm grateful the rough terrain prevented me from wearing high heels.

We move through crowds of reporters and admirers, pausing for photos and handshakes but refusing to answer questions. The press coverage of the moon bathing ritual was phenomenal, almost fawning, and the crowds grow daily. I feel less like a person and more like a museum exhibit.

It's difficult to remain grounded amidst the staring, shouting crowds chanting my name. This is routine for Sinclair, but I doubt I'll ever become accustomed to it. I also worry about my child being subjected to this attention. "It won't always be like this, will it?" I ask, cradling my baby bump as we navigate the throng. "Surely it's just the festival and the novelty of our relationship."

"Things will calm down," Sinclair agrees, his keen eyes noticing my attempt to shield our baby. "They'll be excited about the baby, but they'll keep their distance. They know how protective new parents are, and while intrusive about adult relationships, children are considered off-limits."

"Good," I breathe, still frowning. "I don't like it, but I'll endure it as long as they leave the baby alone."

"After the campaign, we can remove you from the spotlight," Sinclair offers. "As a new mother, a reduced public presence would be perfectly reasonable." Just then, the wind shifts, and Sinclair tenses, scenting the air.

A snide voice cuts from our left, and a figure in white emerges from behind a tree. "What kind of Luna looks for excuses to avoid her duties?" I don't need to see her to recognize Lydia; her tone is vastly different from when she helped me in the bathroom, but her nasal timbre is unmistakable.

Before I can react, Sinclair positions himself between me and his ex-wife. "Are you so desperate to intrude that you've resorted to skulking like a fox, Lydia?" A murmur runs through the assembled shifters; calling a wolf a fox is clearly an insult, though I, a fox lover, find myself slightly offended on their behalf.

"It took you long enough to notice me," she complains, bitterness lacing her voice. "Are you so preoccupied with your little pet that your wolf can't sense his surroundings?"

I try to move in front of Sinclair, but he holds me firmly, his arm locking me against him. A growl rises in my chest, stifled by his own deeper growl, leaving no room for argument. "I guess that shows how little you mean to my wolf these days," Sinclair counters smoothly. "He doesn't even notice you when you're right in front of him."

I can only glimpse Lydia's outraged expression before she continues, "You may not want me here, Sinclair, but as the only she-wolf who bears your mark, I have the right to begin the hunt with you."

My mind struggles to catch up. She's trying to replace me in the ceremony, believing I'm ineligible because Sinclair and I aren't fully mated. Outrage floods me. How dare she try to take our place? How dare she try to take Sinclair from us? My anger is intense, overriding any logic—like the fact that Sinclair doesn't belong to either of us, so he can't be "taken."

I never felt this possessive about Mike. Heartbroken, yes, but learning of his infidelity brought sorrow, not envy. But now, a raw, primal jealousy consumes me. Is this the pup claiming its father? Or have I lost my mind?

"You're out of your—"

I break free from Sinclair's grasp, ducking under his arms and circling him in righteous indignation. He reaches for me, but I stand tall, shooting him a warning glare before unleashing my fury on Lydia. "The only mark you bear is from the wolf you tricked into marrying you after abandoning this pack. If you want to participate in the hunt, go home to him—or has he seen you for the snake you are and kicked you out?"

Lydia's eyes flash. Did I hit too close to home? Did her new husband realize Sinclair was never sterile, making their infertility her problem? Would an Alpha reject a mate who couldn't bear pups? Is Lydia here because she has nowhere else to go?

Stop empathizing! my inner voice commands. You can feel sorry for her later; there's a battle to win!

Who are you?! I cry. What battle? I'm not going to publicly humiliate a woman struggling with fertility.

Struggling with fertility doesn't mean she's not a conniving bitch, the voice replies. And she's trying to take Sinclair. He's mine. Ours.

Before I can respond, Lydia snarls, and I restrain Sinclair from shielding me again. "Better the mark of another than no mark at all. You don't even know what it truly means to be a mate," she snaps.

I press my hand to my belly, drawing her attention to my unborn child. "What stronger claim could there be than this miracle? I don't need Dominic's mark to know I belong to him—and I'm willing to wait until we can do it right, befitting a King and Queen," I declare, lifting my chin.

Lydia's expression flickers at the mention of the pup, and sympathy resurfaces, but her eyes harden when I call myself a queen. The shifters murmur, glaring at Lydia and grinning at me. Sinclair presses against me, his hands circling my waist, helping me cradle our pup. A satisfied purr rumbles in his chest as he whispers in my ear, "The baby likes it when Mommy's fierce. And so do I." My heart flutters hearing "Mommy" for the first time.

Feeling confident, I continue, "And we both know there are many ways to claim a mate beyond a bite," I say with a sultry grin, sliding my hand up his neck, encouraging his affection. This feels completely right; we should be fighting this battle together, showcasing our attraction.

Lydia takes a furious step toward me, and Sinclair emits a vicious snarl, subduing everyone but me. Since no one knows I'm human, they'll assume I'm Sinclair's equal—in spirit, if not strength.

Lydia whimpers and flees. I feel an urge to chase her, but Sinclair holds me tight. "Not so fast, feisty pants; we have more important things to do than chase bitter exes," he says, his face full of pride and anticipation. "It's time."