Every instinct urged me to flee Sinclair, but he caught me around the waist before I could move two feet. I knew I'd made a terrible mistake; I couldn't explain the impulse to strike him. I'd never raised a hand against anyone, certainly not a man as dangerous as Sinclair—a predator who could devour me in an instant.

Yanked to a stop in his arms, I panicked. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it; I don't know what happened!" I exclaimed, squirming despite my injuries. He pulled me against his chest, holding me flush against him.

Sinclair chuckled darkly. He hadn't lost his temper; he was entirely in control, but he wouldn't let me get away with hitting him. "Tsk, sweet Ella, I know exactly what happened," he purred. "But you're not sorry—not yet, anyway." His lips grazed my ear, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine. "But you will be."

"Dominic, please—" I begged, squirming desperately.

"I warned you, little one. This was your last strike," he said coolly. "Now stop wriggling before you hurt yourself."

Immediately, I felt the difference. If one of the other rogues had caught me, I would have been too terrified to rebel. I'd experienced the paralyzing fear of an attacker more than once. Yet, I felt no such fear with Sinclair. I knew he meant to punish me, and yet I felt completely safe.

He stripped off my ball gown and settled on the bed, laying me face down across his lap. "What are you doing?" I whimpered, trying to sit up.

One of Sinclair's large hands settled at the base of my spine, holding me in place as his free hand traced the curve of my bare bottom. "What do you think I'm doing?" he inquired, taking obvious pleasure in it.

"You can't be serious!" I protested. "This is barbaric! I'm not a child!"

"You're right," Sinclair crooned, his fingers still grazing my skin, making my thighs tingle. "You're not a child, which means you should know better than to throw tantrums and strike people."

"But I'm pregnant," I reminded him, hoping for mercy. "You could hurt the baby."

"Trust me, sweetheart, if spankings harmed unborn pups, my kind would have died out long ago," Sinclair drawled, massaging my lower back. "Breeding she-wolves need to feel their mate's dominance more than anyone else."

The word "spanking" echoed in my mind, surreal. I knew its meaning, but it seemed impossible I was in this situation. I'd known many punishments, but none like this. None from someone who cared about me, and none that excited me despite my better judgment.

"That's fine for you and your twisted were-friends, but I'm not into that sort of thing!" I insisted, trying to ignore the heat spreading through my body. I was growing wet, and I was horrified when Sinclair inhaled sharply, a satisfied rumble in his chest. Surely he couldn't smell my arousal?

"Is that the story you want to stick with, Ella?" Sinclair asked, amusement in his velvety tones as his fingers neared my swollen sex. No, no, no. I'd never been this aroused—but what did that say about me? What was wrong with me?

I whined, trying to pull away. "This isn't fair; you're not the boss of me!" Why was I still provoking him? Why wasn't I begging for mercy?

"We'll just see about that," Sinclair intoned, massaging my backside, warming my skin in preparation. When the first swat landed, I arched, crying out in protest. It hurt, but my reaction was more outrage than pain.

I kicked and beat my fists against Sinclair's thighs, but he easily restrained me. How could I feel safer in his arms than when I was lashing out? He landed another swat, on the opposite cheek, spreading the heat evenly. He started slowly, increasing his efforts as I became accustomed to the sting.

I fought furiously, yet I was more aroused than ever. Something was wrong with me. He was spanking me like a naughty child, not the mother of his baby. His words—calling me a bad girl, scolding and praising my arousal—were incredibly arousing.

He didn't stop until I submitted, until I let go of my own control. When his swats slowed, I found myself undulating, lifting my bottom to meet his hand. I forced myself to still. "Is it over?" I asked miserably.

"On any other occasion, it would be," Sinclair said, sounding resigned. "But you need to cry, Ella. You need to deal with the attack."

"But I don't want to," I moaned, feeling immature.

"It's okay, I'm going to help you," Sinclair promised, stroking my spine. "And afterward, I promise I'll make you feel good."

"No, please I don't want to cry," I confessed, my voice tiny.

"Why not?" Sinclair asked. "What's so terrible about crying?"

Sniffling, I told him my fears. If I could be honest with anyone, it was him. "I'm afraid if I start, I won't be able to stop. I don't want to hurt."

Sinclair clucked sympathetically. He understood I wasn't talking about physical pain. "I'll be with you the whole time," he promised. "I'm not going to let you face it alone."

I resisted as long as I could, until his encouragement overrode my resistance. Instead of scolding, he reassured me, telling me I was safe.

It didn't take long. A few swats, and I collapsed into his arms, sobbing into his legs until he pulled me onto his lap. I winced as my sore bottom met his thighs, but his kisses and soothing words eased my pain, and soon I forgot my outrage.

"I'm sorry I was such a brat," I confessed, nuzzling his chest.

"I love your every mood," Sinclair assured me. "You never need to apologize for being yourself."

I shook my head. "When you say things like that, I think you're too good to be true," I admitted. "I don't trust it."

"That's okay," Sinclair affirmed. "I'm not going to be scared off because you're a bit skittish, Ella. You're giving me an heir—I'm in this for the long haul."

My heart sank at the reminder he was doing this because I carried his son, but I felt so comfortable in his arms that I couldn't protest. He petted and cuddled me until my tears slowed, though my rear end still burned. I felt so many conflicting emotions.

I'd been punished, confronted my trauma, and yet I was consumed with lust. My desire was the only thing Sinclair hadn't yet satisfied, and I knew he intended to.

As if reading my mind, Sinclair slid his hand between my legs, feeling my wetness and purring with approval. "Now, would you like me to make you feel good?"