I woke up in a thick haze of confusion, feeling as though I'd been run over by a truck, but unable to remember why. Muscles I didn't even know I possessed screamed at me, demanding ice packs and painkillers, and I had a thumping headache. For a moment, I wondered if I had a hangover, recalling the groggy mornings after nights out on the town.

Slowly, the memories trickled in: the wild hunt taking a horrible turn; the rogue wolves chasing me in the forest; my near-hypothermia; and fighting for my life, knowing it would be over once they caught me. When I relived being trapped among the boulders, feeling their claws ripping into my skin as I fought them off, I rushed to the bathroom.

I emptied my stomach into the toilet—for reasons unrelated to my pregnancy and entirely due to sheer terror—then collapsed on the tiles, trying to force the horrible memories from my brain.

Other unwelcome images crowded in even as I struggled to bury this latest horror, ghosts from my past seizing the opportunity to rear their terrible heads. Breathing deeply, I forced them back into the iron safe in the back of my mind, shoving the memories of last night inside with them. It wasn't easy, but I was well-practiced at stowing unpleasant things away, protecting myself from their torment. Afterward, I felt dazed and numb, but that was better than wallowing in agony.

Pulling myself up, I studied my bandaged arms in the mirror, realizing they'd clash with my ball gown's off-the-shoulder cut. I called the dressmaker immediately, asking her to hurry. The morning papers reported that the bloody events of my first wild hunt had gone undetected by the media and the general public, but today was the Solstice—it was more important than ever that Sinclair and I make a strong showing.

The dressmaker arrived shortly, surprising my guards, who apparently hadn't realized I was awake. She suggested tight-fitting sleeves the same color as my skin to disguise my bandages without compromising the gown's design, and also offered to sew me a pair of matching gloves. I agreed, and she quickly made the adjustments. By early afternoon, the gown was complete, and I stood before the mirror studying the effect.

When Sinclair barged in mid-fitting, I expected a compliment on my quick thinking. I smiled, feeling proud, but he only glared. "What in the Goddess's name do you think you're doing?"

His growling voice sent a shiver down my spine, but I managed a soft chuckle. "Well, I can't very well go to the ball looking like a mummy," I answered, nodding towards my white bandages.

Sinclair stalked forward, dismissing the dressmaker with a curt, "Leave us." Once the door closed, he bore down on me, towering above me with a foreboding expression. "Ella, you're not going to the ball."

"I'm sorry, are you auditioning to be my evil stepmother?" I quipped, astonished by his anger.

"This isn't a joke," Sinclair said sternly. "A few hours ago, you were bloody catatonic."

"I'm better now," I shrugged, turning back to the mirror and pretending I didn't see his thunderstruck expression. "I felt a bit groggy from the doctor's drugs at first, but that passed ages ago."

Sinclair shook his head, muttering in disbelief. "Goddess, Cora was right."

"Right about—" I began, processing his words too late. Understanding slammed into me. "You called Cora? You told her? Why would you do that?!"

"Because she's your sister, she loves you, and she had a right to know you were hurt," he declared, turning me back to the mirror and unzipping my gown. I tried to wrench away, but it didn't work.

"Dominic, stop!" I insisted, backing out of his reach and clutching the gown to my chest. "You should have talked to me before calling Cora. It wasn't necessary to upset her."

"At least one of us is upset!" he exclaimed, baffling me.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" I demanded, my annoyance devolving into outrage. "Why are you being like this?"

"To start with," Sinclair burst, "the mother of my pup was almost killed last night, but you're pretending like nothing happened!" I felt a familiar rush of disappointment at being reduced to 'the mother of his pup,' but I wasn't surprised.

"I'm not denying it happened," I corrected. "But it wasn't a big deal. You're fine, I'm fine. It was scary, but it all turned out okay."

I could see Sinclair wanted to reach for me, to grab me and turn me to face him, but he was obviously wary of touching my wounds. Instead, he circled in front of me, imposing on my personal space with his large body. "Ella, nothing about this situation is okay!" he asserted firmly, searching my face for signs that his words were sinking in, and becoming even more upset when they weren't. "And I don't believe for one second that you are as unaffected by all this as you're pretending."

"I'm not pretending," I insisted. "I know you think I'm this fragile thing, but I'm not, Dominic."

He sighed, wearing the beleaguered expression of someone at his wit's end. "It isn't fragile or weak to be affected by a near-death experience, Ella."

"I know that," I informed him stubbornly. "That isn't what I meant, just that you want me to behave according to your expectations… but everyone handles trauma differently."

"Well, if I thought you were handling it, I wouldn't care what method you chose," Sinclair grumbled. "What bothers me is seeing you ignore it."

"So what, you want me to be upset?" I inquired, aghast. "Why? So you can rush in and play the hero?"

"Of course I don't want you to be upset!" He rumbled, catching my waist. "But I also don't want you hurting yourself by repressing your feelings. These things don't just go away, Ella; if you don't let them out, they fester and grow toxic inside you."

My own blood began to boil. "I have the rest of my life to process what happened, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let the Prince win this campaign. Don't you think he wants us to stay home and lick our wounds?" I demanded, surprising myself with the force of my convictions.

I wanted to convince Sinclair not to coddle me, but I also wanted to make the Prince pay for trying to harm my unborn child. "He shouldn't get away with what he did last night! I don't care what he does to me, but I won't stand for him trying to kill our baby."

"Well, you should care what he does to you!" Sinclair exploded, pacing and looking as though he couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or impressed with my defiance. "And your well-being is more important than showing him up."

"That's your opinion," I hissed, crossing my arms. "I disagree."

Sinclair narrowed his eyes, pulling my body flush against his and letting me feel the full weight of his disapproval. "We're not going to the ball, Ella," he declared, his fingers digging into my tender flesh. "We're going to talk about this whether you like it or not."

"You can't make me," I countered, my lip curling. "And I don't need you to make me feel better, because I'm fine."

"No, you aren't," Sinclair insisted, seeming resigned but determined. "I know, because I'm not, and it didn't even happen to me."

"Just stop it!" I shouted, fighting back tears. Why wouldn't he let this go? Why wouldn't he just let me deal with it in my own way? I felt myself spiraling out of control. I felt the bad feelings hammering against the locked door in my mind, encouraged by Sinclair's warmth and understanding. Something inside me wanted to cave to his dominance, but I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't release all that darkness—it would swallow me whole. "I've made up my mind!"

"Have you even cried, Ella?" Sinclair continued, stalking me across the room. "Have you let yourself feel what they did to you?"

"I said stop it!" I repeated, pushing at his broad chest. "Just leave me alone!"

"I'm not going to do that, baby," he stated gravely, continuing to pursue me.

"Of course not!" I accused. "You pretend you're doing this for me, but really you're helping yourself. You don't care what I want."

"I do, but what you want and what you need aren't always the same," Sinclair said, repeating the same alpha nonsense he'd been preaching from day one.

Before I could stop myself, I surged forward, fueled by a strange and reckless courage. "I am so sick of your condescending bullshit," I cried, smacking his hands away. "You're a wolf, so you get to boss me around; you're a man, so you know what I need better than I do—well, I don't accept that!"

My feeble swats, pushing back against his attempts to console me, grew more desperate, until I lashed out with all my strength and struck Sinclair across the face. A loud clap rang through the air, and only too late did I realize what I'd done. Sinclair's wolf blazed in his eyes, and I could only whimper, turn, and run.