Ella
It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date.
I’ve been repeating the same thought over and over again. I know Sinclair is only taking me out tonight
because I fell to complete pieces this afternoon. I’m still kicking myself, totally ashamed of my
weakness and determined to prove myself to him after all. I spent the better part of an hour picking out
my dress for tonight, eventually deciding on a little black dress that shows off my figure and makes me
feel strong and sexy, nothing like my usual self.
I wrap a heavy winter coat around my body after Sinclair’s makeup artists and hairdressers finish
making me up, sliding on a pair of strappy stilettos and taking a few deep breaths before heading
downstairs. Sinclair is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, his emerald gaze raking up my bare
legs and lingering on my coat, as if he’s tempted to unwrap it and get a preview of what’s underneath.
It’s amazing how overheated he can make me feel from a single glance – he’s already seen me naked,
and it’s not as if there’s any true feeling behind it anyway.
“Ready?” He asks, his deep voice making my heart stop for just a few beats.
I nod shyly, and let him guide me out the door with a hand on the small of my back. However as soon
as I take a step outside, I find myself backing into Sinclair’s protective shelter. A sea of reporters is
gathered just outside the estate’s gates, cameras flashing and voices raised in shouts for our attention.
It’s precisely like the scene which had awaited us outside the King’s palace, only this is a random
Tuesday evening – at the place I’m gradually beginning to think of as home.
“Dominic?” I squeak.
“It’s okay,” His lips brush my ear as he tucks me under his arm, “your interview aired this evening, that’s
all. Early feedback would indicate you’re a hit.”
“You mean, they’re here because of me?” I whisper, praying I can walk gracefully in my heels, and that
Sinclair will catch me if I start to fall flat on my face.
“That’s right.” He grins, waving at the reporters. “If you feel nervous just take a deep breath, and
remember it will all be over in a few seconds.”
I do as he advises, and sure enough the next thing I know, I’m safely ensconced in the back seat of his
limousine. “Do you ever get used to it?” I ask shakily.
“No.” Sinclair admits, “but it gets easier.”
“So are you going to tell me where we’re headed, or is it another surprise?” I guess, trying not to sound
too petulant.
“This time I’ll tell you.” Sinclair conceded, in a tone that sounded as though this was a grave sacrifice. “I
think you’ve had a hard enough day already.”
“Thank you.” I note primly, gazing at him expectantly.
The corner of his mouth tilts upwards, “It’s just so tempting.”
“Dominic!” I exclaim in exasperation.
He laughs. “Okay, okay. We’re going to a little French restaurant I know, and afterwards we’ll go
dancing at a popular shifter club.”
I find myself practically bursting with curiosity. “Is shifter food very different from human food? Do
shifters have their own dance styles?”
Sinclair smiles, and I suddenly wish I’d chosen to sit beside him, rather than across the car. “We eat
more red meat than humans – rarer steaks too – but otherwise it’s not so different.” A low rumble,
somewhere between a purr and a growl sounds in his chest. “And our dancing can be a bit more….
Sensual, but don’t worry, I”m looking forward to teaching you.”
Oh god. His intense focus and scintillating tone has my body heating up like a bonfire, and I have to
squeeze my thighs together to relieve the sudden ache at their center. It’s not a real date, it’s not a real
date, it’s not a real date.
To my dismay, the reporters have followed us to the restaurant, and they’re waiting when Sinclair helps
me from the car. Their cameras are still flashing when the hostess helps me out of my coat, capturing
images through the glass of my slinky black dress and Sinclair’s ravenous expression when he takes in
the sight. It speaks volumes that despite their blatant observation, all I could focus on in that moment
was Sinclair, and his glowing green eyes.
Before I know it he’s pulled me into his arms and is claiming my mouth in an earth-shattering kiss. I’m
sure it’s only for the benefit of the cameras, but I melt against him immediately, letting him ravish me for
all to see. My heart is hammering so powerfully when he finally releases me that I almost don’t hear
him tell me how incredible I look. I’m in a complete daze as he guides me to the back of the restaurant,
trying to recall if I’ve ever felt so overpowered by lust. I’m a grown woman who’s had a healthy sex-life,
but I can’t ever recall feeling as though I’ll die if someone doesn’t make love to me in the next five
minutes. But that’s exactly how I feel now.
“Ella?” Sinclair’s voice drags me back into the present, and I realize more time has passed than I
realize. We’re seated at the table, and a waitress is standing beside him, watching me with an
expectant smile. “Something to drink?”
“Just water.” I manage huskily, trying to pull myself together.
“You still with me?” Sinclair teases a moment later.
I’m beginning to wonder if werewolf pheromones are extra powerful on humans, the more time I spend
with this man, the more I feel like I’m being drugged by desire. “Mhmm,” I murmur, my voice much
higher than I intended. “Do you have any recommendations?”
I was talking about the menu, but Sinclair’s sultry reply comes back, “I always recommend sitting side
by side, rather than across from one another.”
“I don’t know.” I answer coyly, “It’s awfully warm in here, I wouldn’t want to overheat.”
“You do look a bit flushed.” Sinclair observes, “should I have them turn up the air conditioning?”
“Then I’ll be cold.” I argue.
Sinclair arches a brow, “then you’d better come over here so I can keep you warm.” It wasn’t a request.
I rise from my chair and circle the table, sliding into the booth next to Sinclair even as he signals the
waitress to lower the temperature in the room. He slides an arm around me and purrs with
contentment. “There, much better.”
Maybe for him, I’m squirming in my seat, painfully aware of the wetness pooling between my legs. In
hindsight I can’t even begin to follow the circular logic that brought us here – but I’m not complaining. I
feel safe being so close to Sinclair, and the butterflies in my belly are fluttering out of control. It’s not a
date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date.
Of course it only gets worse as the night progresses. Our intimate dinner turns into him hand feeding
me dessert, then leading me around a darkened dance floor with our bodies pressed flush together,
whirling through unfamiliar, infinitely seductive steps. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol given my
condition, but I feel completely drunk on Sinclair. The evening flashes before my eyes, and I spiral into
my desire: my world reduces to the feeling of his body moving against mine, his hands gliding over my
waist and hips.
It’s a good thing Sinclair is so intimidating or I might have tried to make a move, and I’m not sure I
could survive getting involved with this powerful wolf. My body might want him, but when my senses
return I’ll remember how completely mismatched we are. We could never be together, and indulging my
physical desires can only lead to disaster.
I’m slowly beginning to suspect that Sinclair isn’t completely immune to me, but I know it could never
be more than physical attraction on his part, and I’m not the sort of woman who can handle casual sex.
I know I’ll catch feelings sooner or later, and then I’ll get my heart broken. Sinclair could never want me
as more than an amusing distraction or plaything and more importantly, I’m carrying his child. I have to
be able to get along with him for the rest of my life, and I know I’m not what he wants.
I fall asleep tossing and turning, until Sinclair loses his patience and pulls my body to his, spooning me
and purring until I drift off. We went to bed late, but I wake up when it’s still dark out, a sense of dread
flooding my form.
Something is wrong.
There’s wetness between my legs, but not the slick desire that tormented me earlier. I reach down and
when I withdraw my fingers again, they’re stained with sticky, red, blood.
Trying not to panic, I shake Sinclair awake. He groans and opens his eyes to slits, mumbling blearily.
“Sinclair, something’s wrong!” I murmur frantically. “I’m bleeding. I think… I think I might be having a
miscarriage.”
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