“Bed rest?” I repeat, glancing nervously at Sinclair. “You mean until the baby comes?”

“No, I don’t think we have to go quite that far yet,” the doctor replies with a kind smile. “For now, let’s start with a few weeks. We can take it as it comes after that.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Sinclair inquires, his large body looming over me. His warmth, which sometimes reminds me too much of a blazing furnace when we’re curled up in bed together, is a welcome balm now, washing over me in a tide of cozy comfort. “She can’t get out of bed at all?”

“No, it’s not that severe,” the doctor assures us. “Ella can get up to use the restroom or move around to change positions. She can take two short walks every day—one in the morning, one in the evening—but no more than twenty minutes each. If you feel tired or overwhelmed before then, you need to stop. Absolutely no stairs, no strenuous physical activity, and no standing for more than twenty minutes at a time, for any reason.”

My heart sinks, but I try to hide my disappointment. It’s not the end of the world; it just means I’m going to be a bit bored. “Do I have to stay completely on my back, or is sitting up okay?”

“Choose whatever position is most comfortable,” he continues, looking back and forth between us. “More importantly, avoid stress, whether you’re in bed, on the couch, or anywhere else. That means no campaign events, no excitement.”

“And if she does get excited, despite our efforts?” Sinclair asks, an odd note in his voice.

“I’ll send you home with some sedatives for emergencies. And while I advise keeping sexual activity to a minimum, if tension builds, it’s better to indulge it than to resist—just remind your wolf to be gentle with her.”

I blink. Who said anything about sex? Is that what Sinclair meant, and I just missed the nuance? How is that not physical exertion?

“Don’t be daft, you know orgasms are the best stress relievers,” the little voice in my head remarks.

Oh Goddess, when was the last time I had one? I think back, recalling the last night I slept away from Sinclair, when I was finally free to relieve the fire he constantly keeps lit inside me.

“Too long, and you have to admit it would be nice to have one you didn’t give yourself,” the voice answers.

“That would be a first,” I snort. Mike is the only other man I’ve been with, and he never seemed to understand that women can’t just magically climax with a few thrusts. I always enjoyed sex for the intimacy, and though it always felt good, orgasms had always been my own responsibility—mine to seek after he rolled over and fell asleep.

“You know it wouldn’t be that way with Sinclair,” my conscience intimates, sparking memories of the few times we’d gotten carried away—glimpses of the pleasure he could give me if I would only succumb to his charms. His words the day of the ball—after the incident, as I’ve decided to call it—ring in my mind: “Now, would you like me to make you feel good?” Nothing about his own desires, nothing about going further—just a selfless offer to fulfill my needs.

“Shut up,” I think sharply, unsure whether I’m addressing the memory or my inner voice. Sinclair is watching me like a hawk, and the hungry expression on his face makes me worry my expression is giving away my lurid thoughts. Before he can speak, I lean into his side, turning my face towards his shoulder to breathe in his scent. I’m doing it for comfort, yes, but also to hide my blushing features. Sinclair purrs softly, stroking my nape, and thanks the doctor.

“I appreciate you coming on such short notice. Can I take her home now?” he asks bluntly, as if I’m the injured party.

“Dominic, you’re in much worse condition than I am,” I remind him sulkily. “We should be asking your doctors, not mine.”

He raises a dark eyebrow at my challenge but otherwise ignores me. He looks back to the OB/GYN, who smiles warmly. “She’s free to go as soon as I write this prescription. I’ll check on her the day after tomorrow, but call me if anything comes up before then.”

“Oh fine, ignore me, talk about me like I’m not here,” I grumble. “That will keep me calm.”

“Don’t worry, Ella, you’re in good hands,” the doctor replies, unfazed by my petulance. “I’ll see you soon.”

The moment he turns away, Sinclair moves in front of me, sliding his muscular arms around my middle and burying his face in my neck. I’m so surprised by the gesture that I barely notice I forgot to thank the doctor. Sinclair isn’t growling, scolding, kissing, or trying to sneak a caress; he’s simply hugging me—squeezing me with barely restrained force.

Sensing this isn’t his usual mischief or bossiness, I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, returning the embrace and nuzzling his scruffy jaw. “Hey, what is it?” I murmur, holding him tightly to show my concern, not a desire to be released. It’s only when I feel the bandages beneath his shirt that I remember his wounds, but as soon as I try to pull away, Sinclair rumbles in protest.

He lifts his face, just enough to speak into my ear. “Today was horrible,” he says, his voice gravelly. “Every last minute of it. And now this.”

“I’m okay, though,” I answer softly. “And so is the baby—this is just a precaution.”

“I don’t like it,” he insists, sounding as sullen as I felt a few minutes ago. “You shouldn’t have to worry about this on top of everything else… and I hate that I can’t… I can’t protect you from this.”

And here I thought I was on a roller coaster of emotions. In a few hours, Sinclair had gone from rabid protector to bossy nurse to teasing, would-be lover. Now here he is, clinging to me like a child to a teddy bear, beside himself with helplessness. I suddenly realize his day started even worse than mine—waking up drugged with a psychotic ex, then finding me missing, tracking me down, and weathering a tantrum he didn’t deserve.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, my voice smaller than I’d like. “I’m sorry for the way I acted earlier, and I’m sorry I scared you when I ran, and for the accident, and for fainting. I wish I could turn back time and undo this entire day—and yesterday, for that matter.”

“It’s certainly been an eventful week,” he jokes, his deep bass dripping with irony. “But none of it has been your fault.”

“I’m still sorry,” I repeat, kissing his neck. “You’ve been killing yourself taking care of me, and I’ve been a brat. You deserve better.” I hate that I’m near tears, but I don’t think my wild emotions will even out anytime soon. “I think it’s time you let me return the favor.”

“You already did,” he purrs, rocking me slightly as he strokes my hair. “You kept me calm today when no one else could. You probably saved the lives of some of those nurses.”

At first, I take it as a joke, but then I realize he’s probably being literal. “It’s not enough; I want to do more.”

“You just got put on bed rest, little one,” Sinclair reminds me, pulling back to cup my face in his massive hands. Despite his stern tone, his green eyes soften as he looks down at me. “I appreciate that you want to help me, Ella. But the only thing that could fix this would be for the doctor to walk back over here and tell me his diagnosis was a mistake. I’m afraid I’m going to be feeling this way until our baby is here and you’re both safe and healthy.”

“You’re right,” I acknowledge, clasping his wrists and giving him my best puppy-dog eyes. “I can’t fix this, but there must be something I can do to make you feel better—even on bed rest.” A devious thought occurs to me. “You know I won’t be able to truly relax if I’m worried about you.”

Sinclair huffs out a laugh, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “I swear, you’re going to be the death of me, trouble.”

I peek up at him from beneath my lashes. “Is that a yes?”