“I know and I’m not saying she isn’t terrible, just that you need a true Luna.” I remark with a weak shrug. “And with you there to keep her in check, her worse nature wouldn’t ever get out of control.” “Who says I need a true Luna?” Sinclair grumbles, sounding every bit as petty and mutinous as I m
Sinclair When Ella collapses in my arms, I can hardly wait for the nurses to come running. I immediately assume we must have missed some injury from the accident, and I’m instantly furious with myself for letting her talk me into being prioritized by the medical staff. What was I thinking? I know
“You naughty girl.” I tease, stroking her soft cheek. “Fainting to get out of telling me your feelings?” “It wasn’t on purpose.” She pouts, looking over me with obvious concern. “Why are you out of bed? What about your x-rays?” “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.” I encourage, “how are you feeling?
Ella “Bed rest?” I repeat, glancing nervously at Sinclair. “You mean until the baby comes?” “No, I don’t think we have to do anything quite that extreme yet.” The doctor replies with a kind smile, “For now let’s start with a few weeks. Beyond that we can take it as it comes.” “What does that mean
“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, completely unphased by my petulant words. “I’ll see you soon.” The moment he turns away, Sinclair moves in front of me, sliding his muscular arm
Ella “Why does it feel like this is more for my benefit than yours?” I inquire archly, watching as Sinclair pours oils and salts into a large, steaming bath. The clever wolf knows how much I love a bubble bath, especially now that I’m pregnant. After years of constantly being dirty and even living
“Please don’t do this.” I beg, hiccupping on a sob. “Please don’t blame yourself for this. You’re trying to do the right thing for everyone here. Neither one of us planned this, neither one of us could have prepared for what the world would throw at us these last few months. I don’t blame you, I jus
“Well, I guess that settles that.” I muse, staring at the image dominating the narrow screen of my smart phone. Granted, it was sent by the woman I saved as “Satan’s Mistress” in my contacts and is centered right below the photo of Lydia and Sinclair in bed together, but there’s no mistaking the sig