Ella is as stiff as a board in my arms, frozen in shock as my lips meet hers, silencing her bitter tirade. This only lasts a moment, of course. As soon as the stubborn creature realizes what I've done, she pushes against my shoulders, growing increasingly agitated when they don't budge. She squirms and struggles, clearly outraged that I kissed her while she was angry. I can practically hear her objections: "You're not playing fair!" she'd say, her eyes flashing.

"Damn straight," I'd answer, my thoughts mirroring the silent conversation our bodies are already having.

I rumble softly, and Ella whines—a sweet, plaintive sound as her body resists the pull of desire, but I ruthlessly overwhelm it. I show her no mercy, caressing her lithe body and devouring her soft murmurs of protest until she melts against me, her mouth seeking mine in total surrender. She whimpers when she finally gives in, as if unsure why she even fought.

I taste Ella's blood from a cut on her lip, and my inner wolf groans with pleasure. Unlike vampire counterparts in horror films, shifters aren't interested in consuming blood. But tasting one's mate's blood during a claiming mark is inevitable, and the flavor has an undeniably Pavlovian effect. I may not need the crimson liquid for nourishment, but I crave the taste of Ella's. It's rich and sweet, instantly making me wonder what other parts of her taste like.

Ella's salty tears drip onto my lips, but though she cries, she clings to me fiercely. Her arms are locked around my neck, her body pressed against mine with an urgency I understand completely. My tongue slips past her lips as I rearrange her in my arms, guiding her to straddle my lap so I can feel her plump breasts and beaded nipples against my chest, so I can slide my hands down to the curve of her bottom and press my hardness against her, helping her move against me, find pleasure—even through our clothes.

Ella responds so naturally, so passionately. I barely need to apply pressure to influence her movement. It's as if she's reading my mind, our bodies speaking the same love language, perfectly in tune. Her fingers tangle in my hair, clutching the dark locks as if afraid she'll need to hold me in place, lest I pull away. I hold her tighter, letting her feel my strength, purring when a thump against my abdomen tells me the baby is awake and thriving.

I could kiss her for a thousand years and never tire of it—never tire of her taste, or the feel of her beautiful body in my arms. I'd never want another.

She's perfect. My wolf agrees. We have to claim her. She's strong enough.

I won't hurt her. I insist. I'm painfully aware of her delicacy, how fragile her human form is compared to my own. It makes me handle her more gently, suddenly afraid I might break her. Ella growls in protest, that indignant sound that always warms my heart.

"You see," my wolf argues. "She can take it—she needs this too."

I purr in apology, sliding my hand into her long, silky hair, clenching it gently as I continue kissing her. I steal kiss after kiss from her sweet lips until they're swollen and red, for reasons unrelated to her self-inflicted bite. Our breathing is ragged, and Ella's heart beats so loudly I don't need to wonder if it's racing as fast as mine—it is.

The scent of her arousal is overwhelming in the small space, and the sensation of her grinding against me makes me fear I might climax in my pants like an inexperienced schoolboy. I groan, dragging my mouth from hers to catch my breath. Instead, I kiss my way down her jaw and nibble a delectable earlobe, eliciting a sultry moan that makes the hard member between my legs leap with excitement.

"Down, boy," I think in exasperation. Our first time with Ella won't be frantic and rushed in the back of a limo.

Ella pulls away, startled by my movement—enough to break the haze of lust. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her pupils so dilated that her gold irises are slender rings around the vast black pools. Her skin is flushed bright pink, and her hair disheveled. It's an almost irresistible sight, making me want to reverse my decision not to claim her. No other man should ever see my Ella like this.

"Dominic, this isn't right," she announces, still catching her breath.

"It feels right to me," I reply, resisting the urge to look at her heaving bosom. Instead, I pin her with my gaze, massaging her nape and willing her back into my embrace.

"That's not the point," Ella insists, sounding as if she might cry again. "Stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?" I clarify, furrowing my brow with concern. "What is the point?"

"Like I'm a rabbit your wolf wants to eat for dinner," she exclaims. "And the point is that I'm done letting you jerk me around and toy with my feelings!"

"What feelings?" I ask, ignoring the first part. She's not wrong—my wolf would undoubtedly like to "feast" on her, just not in the way she means. Again, I know I should clear the air, but I'm afraid if I do, she won't confess her true emotions. This misunderstanding gives me valuable leverage, and I might be an asshole for using it, but getting to the bottom of this is more important. I've suspected Ella's been holding back for reasons other than disinterest, and I'm done letting her get away with it. "I thought you didn't want to be with me?"

"Dominic, why are you so determined to ask when the answers aren't important?" she hisses angrily. "You've made your choice; that's all that matters."

"Just tell me, Ella," I command, injecting some Alpha authority into my voice. She might not be a wolf, but her instincts are strong. It might be the baby, or she might just be one of those humans more in touch with their primal selves—either way, she responds to my dominance naturally.

Ella shivers as my power washes over her, and I'm amazed to see her fight it. "No!" she bursts out, furious even as she seems to cower. "I don't have to! You might run the world, but you can't make me open my heart to you. You can't demand I make myself vulnerable—that's my decision."

My wolf wants to growl at her defiance, but I hear the hurt and fear in her voice. Damn it. I realize she's right; I'm being an ass. I want the truth, but I don't want to hurt her to get it. As I ponder my mistake, the car stops in front of my mansion, pulling into a parking space across the street.

Before I can apologize for letting this misunderstanding persist for my own selfish desires, my driver opens the door. Ella slides out, and my chauffeur tactfully avoids looking at her disheveled state. She stomps onto the sidewalk, wrapping her arms around herself, checking the road before crossing.

I follow, exiting the vehicle. "Ella, I'm sorry," I say earnestly.

She pauses, turning in the middle of the empty street. "Don't be—you were right; you haven't done anything wrong."

The screech of tires fills the air as a car speeds out of a parking spot, heading straight for Ella.