Three weeks post-ball, and the campaign drama feels like a distant Solstice memory. Since the holidays, it's been blissfully calm, though a part of me still expects the rug to be pulled out from under us.

I've spent my time immersed in baby books, planning the nursery, and brainstorming names. Best of all, my nausea and aches have lessened daily. Yesterday marked the start of my second trimester—shifter pregnancies are short—and it's surreal to think my baby will arrive in just four months. The relief of leaving the most vulnerable stage behind is immense, and I don't even mind seeing Sinclair less now that he's back to a regular work schedule.

Well, that's not entirely true. I miss him, more than I should, but I'm also grateful for the space. Resisting our attraction is easier when we're not constantly together, engaging in intimate rituals and romantic outings.

"Why are you being so stubborn?" my inner voice nags. "If you're going to give in eventually, why not now and enjoy these last months before the baby arrives? You do realize you'll never be alone again in four months?"

"I'm not having this argument again," I decide. We agreed co-parenting without relationship drama is best for the baby.

"You decided, and he went along with it because he doesn't realize it's a stupid reason," my conscience snipes.

"It's not stupid!" I insist. "I'm going to be a mother; my baby comes first. That's what parenting is about."

"Keep telling yourself that," the voice derides. "We both know you're just scared."

"Shut up!" I exclaim, losing patience. "Stupid conscience," I mutter, sorting through my enormous closet, searching for an outfit for tonight's parenting class. "Uppity, annoying, impossible"

"Talking to yourself, trouble?" Sinclair's deep voice startles me. I jump.

He's leaning in the doorway, watching intently. "Dominic, you scared me half to death!"

The large shifter tses, approaching and pulling me into his arms, stroking my hair gently. "I'm sorry," he croons, kissing my hair. "I forget how sensitive your hearing is."

"My hearing is fine!" I retort, feeling irrationally angry. "It's your ridiculous shifter stealth. Someone your size shouldn't move so quietly!"

"Alright," he agrees, a smile suppressed. "My fault. I'm a big hulking beast and need to stomp around more."

I pull away, narrowing my eyes. "Are you laughing at me?"

He smiles. "Is there any way to answer that without annoying you?"

I huff, ignoring the question. Returning to my closet, I rifle through trousers. "Nothing fits anymore!" I complain. "I can't button any of these!"

Sinclair's palm rests on my gently curving belly. The changes are subtle, but my clothes have gone from tight to entirely too small. My breasts aren't as tender, but they spill out of my bras, and my fitted tops stretch over my growing tummy. "That's a good thing, Ella," Sinclair reminds me gently. "It means the baby is growing big and strong."

"Oh, enough of that!" I argue, unsure why I'm disagreeing with everything. "It just means your giant pup is pushing my body to its limits. Normal women don't show this much at this stage." My throat tightens with unshed tears, even though I know I'm being unreasonable. I feel like I'm on a roller coaster—I see what's happening, but can't get off.

Sinclair clucks sympathetically. "You're having a rough day, sweetheart?" I hear the guilt in his voice, making me want to cry. He's been working from home a lot, feeling neglectful, but there's nothing he can do. He carries so much responsibility, and it will only increase if he wins the crown. Suddenly, I feel terrible for being grumpy with him, as he already blames himself despite doing everything he can.

"I'm sorry," I sniffle. "I shouldn't be giving you a hard time."

"You're allowed," he promises, pulling a wrap dress from the rack. "Here, no buttons, no zippers. You don't even need a bra."

"Thank you," I murmur, hugging him tightly. Sinclair purrs and snuggles me until I'm calmer, and half an hour later, we're back in birthing class, listening to the instructor explain why I'm slowly losing my mind.

"Moms, you'll feel physically better now that you're out of the first trimester, but your hormones will really kick in. You may experience intense mood swings and physical changes like hair growth or skin pigmentation." She looks around at the couples. I'm not the only expectant mother looking sheepish.

"You'll also experience heightened libidos—something I encourage you to take advantage of, as you won't have much time after your pup arrives."

Oh great, I think bitterly. As if resisting Sinclair wasn't hard enough. I knew this was part of pregnancy, but I didn't understand how powerless I'd be to my hormones. I assumed it would be like PMS, not these constant extremes. The instructor continues, "Bottom line, mates, it's your job to keep Mom satisfied and relaxed these next few months. She needs you to be her rock. Don't go overboard coddling her—tempting as it may be. Her wolf needs to feel your strength now more than ever."

"Somehow, I really don't think they give the same advice in human birthing classes," I mutter to my conscience.

A warm chuckle rumbles against my back, and Sinclair's voice sounds in my mind. "You should see your face."

I look up, wondering how he saw my expression. He grins, stealing a kiss.

"You also need to create a birthing plan you're both comfortable with," the instructor continues. "Who here is considering a home birth?"

I hesitantly raise my hand. I haven't decided, but I'm open to either option. Almost immediately, a low growl sounds in my ear. "Put that hand down. You're delivering in the hospital, and that's not up for discussion."

I glare at him. I might not be decided, but I don't appreciate him taking away my options. "You're supposed to be keeping me relaxed and listening to my instincts," I state fiercely, mimicking the instructor's saccharine tone, "trusting my body's wisdom."

"Ella, you're high-risk," Sinclair reminds me sternly. "We need to be at the hospital in case of emergencies."

He's thinking of my high blood pressure, and the fact that I'm the first human to give birth to a shifter. I know it makes sense, but his high-handed manner frustrates me. "It's my body."

His wolf flashes in his eyes. "You're mine—and so is this baby. I'm not going to let you endanger him or yourself, Ella."

Without thinking, I snarl—more a kitten's grumble—but my intentions are clear.

Sinclair's grip tightens. His power washes over me, and I wish I had a tail to tuck between my legs. "Did you just growl at me, little mate?"

Despite my trembling, I tilt my chin defiantly. "Why not? You growl at me all the time."

The instructor laughs, breaking the tension. "You see, this is why it's important to talk about these things early on. You might assume you're on the same page, but discover you have different ideas."

"It's also an example of why naughty humans need a firm hand as she-wolves," Sinclair intones, speaking through his bond with the baby. His mouth is at my throat, his lips grazing the spot where he'll one day pretend to mark me. I feel a nip from his fangs, and my anger melts away. My body relaxes, and I realize the instructor was right—I do need to feel Sinclair's strength. Then again, maybe it's hormonal insanity, because why am I now wishing he could mark me for real?