Sinclair

Entering the Blood Moon Tavern for the "Have a Drink with the Alpha" town hall, I immediately cursed Hugo. My beta's good intentions had landed me here, but I longed to be home with Ella. After our evening and my conversation with Roger, my wolf craved being with her, finishing what we'd started.

However, I'd pledged to my pack to attend, speaking with everyone individually in an informal setting. It's the kind of event the Prince would never consider, but one common shifters appreciate. So, I plastered on a smile and entered the rustic pub, greeting the pack members as if I genuinely enjoyed it.

Initially, I was distracted by thoughts of Ella, our growing pup, and a nagging question: Was my brother right? Could our feelings be more than attraction and the pup's bond? Were we falling in love? I wasn't sure I knew what love felt like. I'd thought I was head over heels for Lydia once, but could there be true love when one partner is motivated by selfish gain? Can you truly know love if it's one-sided?

Laughter and noise pulled me from my reverie. I'd neglected my pack. "I know that look," one man chuckled, slapping his leg. "The Alpha's mind's on things lovelier than taxes."

"A certain she-wolf with a swollen belly, perhaps?" another suggested, waggling his eyebrows.

I laughed apologetically, but they seemed understanding. "I'm sorry, you caught me. I can't bear to let my mate out of my sight these days," I confessed, knowing honesty worked best.

"No worry," an older man reassured, patting my back. "I remember when my wife was pregnant—it's always worse with the first."

"When my Mary was pregnant, I attacked a colleague who got too close!" another shared. "Luckily, he didn't hold it against me."

I chuckled. "My wolf wanted to go after Ella's doctor and nurses—men and women," I related, earning more laughter. "Luckily, she's learned to climb into my arms when I get aggressive; the clever minx knows I can't attack anyone while holding her."

Their approving glances filled me with pride, but I settled into listening. I was amazed this burly group preferred she-wolves and babies to politics or security. Soon, everyone shared stories of fatherhood and children. I wished I'd brought my father, and realized I wouldn't mind campaign events if they were all like this.

I ordered a second drink but set it down after a few sips. Despite being the same brand as my first, it had a strange metallic taste. I wondered if soap remained in the glass or if the bartender had opened a new, spoiled bottle. Unfortunately, I never discovered the cause, as the last thing I remember was that off taste, then darkness.

Ella

When Sinclair didn't arrive for dinner, I assumed the event ran late. I was disappointed, but knew these things were unavoidable. Winning the crown was more important than spending time with me; only a narcissist would be upset.

"Says the woman who wants to curl up and cry because Sinclair cares more about the campaign than you," my inner voice quipped.

"That's not fair," I retorted, frustrated. "Those are hormones, not logic."

"Sure, sure," it sniped. "Blame the baby."

I patted my tummy. "I don't blame you," I told my growing pup. "I blame my body."

The baby kicked, as if understanding. A powerful rush of love banished my dour mood, and I smiled, content to converse with the tiny being inside me.

My good mood ended when I realized it was almost nine o'clock, and Sinclair was still absent. I called him; the call went to voicemail. I texted: Just checking in, is the event going alright?

Nothing.

Sighing, I took a bath, trying to stop worrying. The sooner I stopped thinking about Sinclair, the sooner he'd be home.

"Something feels off," my conscience interjected. "Are you sure he's okay?"

"It was a bar event; he probably got caught up. Or maybe he decided on a night out—he deserves to let loose," I reasoned.

"But I don't think he'd do that without telling you," the voice replied.

"He probably forgot," I insisted, dismissing the sting of being an afterthought.

I filled Sinclair's whirlpool tub, using his room in case he returned. I fantasized about him walking in, claiming to be dirty and needing to join me. I imagined him in the tub with me, nestled between his legs.

As I soaked, I pretended my hands were Sinclair's, imagining him washing me. My hand lingered on my breasts and between my legs, his voice filling my head with flimsy excuses about cleaning me.

Soon, I was flushed and breathless, not from the heat. I stopped before Sinclair walked in and found me in a more intimate state. I washed quickly, but the water grew cold.

I checked the time: 11 o'clock. No calls or texts. Worried, I called again. He'd promised to be home hours ago, and never ran late without explanation. Voicemail. I tried twice more and sent texts: Are you okay? I was expecting you hours ago. Should I wait up?

Why did these simple questions feel like a test? I'd overcome my fear of scaring him off, yet this felt like I was being needy.

"That's Mike's influence," the inner voice reminded. "He'd call you a nagging shrew. Don't blame Sinclair."

"Then why hasn't he called? Why isn't he responding?"

"Something's wrong," my conscience insisted.

I called Roger to confirm Sinclair had even attended. He answered quickly, confirming Sinclair had left hours ago. He was going to the bar. I waited.

Before Roger called back, my phone chirped. A message from Sinclair: Stop bothering me—I found better company for the night.

A photo followed: Sinclair, naked in a strange bed, eyes heavy, clothes on a nightstand. Beside him, naked, was Lydia.