"Why does this feel more for your benefit than mine?" I asked archly, watching Sinclair pour oils and salts into a large, steaming bath. The clever wolf knew how much I loved bubble baths, especially now that I'm pregnant. After years of dirt and even homelessness, nothing felt so luxurious—or relaxing.

"Hey, I was going to get in with you—you're the one who put your foot down," Sinclair replied with a wolfish grin, skimming his fingers through the water to check the temperature.

"Because you have open wounds!" I exclaimed, exasperated but impatient for the preparation to end so I could sink into the tub. "The doctors said you couldn't submerge your injuries until the scabs are gone."

Amazingly, the gashes on his back had already scabbed over. He truly hadn't been lying when he said shifters heal faster than humans, but I hadn't expected this speed. At this rate, his wounds would be mere scars in a couple of days.

"Which is why I'll be supervising, not participating," Dominic shrugged. I wondered if that hurt him? I pondered, watching the muscles ripple in his back. He certainly showed no signs of pain.

He was so strong. My traitorous conscience swooned, and for a moment I thought I saw stars.

Rolling my eyes at my inner voice, I crossed my arms. "The idea was to help us both relax," I sighed, guilt gnawing at me.

"Believe it or not, Ella, taking care of you does help me relax," Sinclair declared coolly, pressing a button to activate the whirlpool jets. A steady thrumming sound filled the air as the water churned, foaming higher.

"Oh sure, I'm sure your version of supervision will ensure neither of us gets excited—as you and the doctor so elegantly put it," I snarked.

The big wolf flashed his fangs, flames dancing in his eyes as he turned from the bath. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were worried about losing control with me," he observed darkly. "But I can't imagine why, unless your feelings for me are stronger than you're letting on."

"Now you're just fishing," I accused, narrowing my eyes at him as he prowled toward me across the tiled floor.

"Am I?" His dark brows rose. "Because I have no problem admitting mine."

"Don't!" I interrupted, panicking. "Seriously, Dominic, whatever you're going to say, I don't want to know."

"I thought we were past that, sweetheart," he scolded. "Didn't you learn your lesson about hearing me out?"

"This is different," I insisted. "It honestly stresses me out."

Sinclair paused, studying me closely. He was only a few paces away, but the longer he watched, the softer his expression became. "Has it occurred to you that part of your stress comes from fighting the inevitable, Ella?"

"Dominic, what stresses me out is bringing a wolf pup into a world I don't belong to or understand, while living a lie and dodging constant death threats," I snapped, before considering the Alpha's potential reaction. "Can you blame me for wanting to keep things simple? If we lose focus, this could all fall apart."

He stopped, and I saw a wave of guilt wash over him. "Wait… that came out wrong," I backtracked. "Dominic, I didn't mean this is your fault—"

"You might not have meant it that way, but you weren't wrong," Sinclair declared gutturally, his face noticeably paler. "It is my fault—if I were a normal man, if I hadn't forced you into this situation, you probably wouldn't have any complications at all."

"No," I objected, my voice thick with emotion. "You didn't force me into this, Dominic. And there's no way to know if this is connected. Mike destroyed my reproductive system, and many healthy women develop this condition—"

"Maybe so," he interrupted sharply, "but our situation certainly isn't helping." Sinclair paced, resembling a caged tiger.

"Please don't do this," I begged, hiccuping a sob. "Please don't blame yourself. You're trying to do the right thing. Neither of us planned this, neither of us could have prepared for what the world threw at us these last few months. I don't blame you; I just don't want things to get more complicated."

At the sight, or perhaps scent, of my tears, Sinclair deflated, closing the distance and pulling me into his arms. "I'm sorry," he crooned, stroking my spine and kissing my hair. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Here I am, supposed to be keeping you relaxed, and I'm making you cry."

My feet were still on the ground, but I didn't want them to be. I climbed onto him like a monkey, weeping into his neck. "It's not your fault," I repeated pitifully. "I cry over everything now."

"Shh," he cooed, sitting on the bath's edge. "It's okay, you're not going to break me with a few tears, trouble." He said this, but the pain in his voice and the expression on his face were still visible.

A steady purr emanated from his chest as he deftly removed my clothes. He tried to deposit me in the bath, but I wouldn't let go, afraid he'd leave. Instead, he removed his own clothes without dislodging me, before sinking into the tub with me still in his arms. I tried to protest about his back, but he hushed me and submerged us in the hot water.

It was some time before my tears slowed enough to talk, and I realized this wasn't my first breakdown of the day. "I love this baby," I murmured, "but I'm getting really sick of crying all the time."

Sinclair's lips grazed my temple. "I don't think that's his fault either. Maybe some of it—"

"The bacon," I reminded him, thinking of my most ridiculous fit.

"The bacon," he agreed, sounding amused. "But not the rest. You have every reason to be upset, Ella. I should have listened to you earlier, before you fainted. You tried to tell me this was too much, and I was too preoccupied with romance to consider how right you were. It's exactly like you said: I'm letting my feelings distract me from what's important—the campaign, you, and Rafe."

"What are you saying?" I sniffled, fearing the answer and unsure if I hoped I was right.

"I think you were right. If Lydia is pregnant, it might be for the best; if not, I should find another she-wolf to be Luna after the campaign," Sinclair proclaimed, his deep voice sounding hollow.

Luckily, I was still curled around him, so I hid my face in his shoulder to prevent him from seeing my disappointment. I knew this was the right decision, the most logical solution, and I didn't plan on arguing—but it still hurt. It felt like being ripped apart.

"Thank you," I breathed, despite my breaking heart. "I'm trying really hard, but I don't know if I can get through another week like this with my sanity intact," I confessed, recalling the blackmail, Roger learning the truth, Lydia drugging Sinclair, our fight, the car crash, the hospital, and now this. Had it really only been three days?

"Bed rest will help," Sinclair promised. "Just you wait; in a week or so, you'll be so bored you'll wish for another blackmailer just to shake up the monotony."

I hiccuped a laugh and finally relaxed as my tears slowed.

Two weeks later, it wasn't a blackmailer; it was a text from Lydia. No words, only a photo of a positive pregnancy test.