Ella
Sinclair is instantly alert. He sits up in bed and pulls the covers back, staring at the red stain on my nightgown with an unreadable expression. He presses his palm to my belly, undoubtedly trying to communicate with the pup through their mental link. I’m trembling while I wait for him to give his verdict, terrified that the new life inside me might already be coming to a heartbreaking end.
“I think he’s okay.” Sinclair murmurs after a moment, looking up at me with a furrowed brow. “But we should get you to the hospital right away.”
I slide out of bed on autopilot, my mind spinning with all the terrible possibilities. What if my ovaries were too damaged by Mike’s sabotage to support a healthy baby? What if my uterus isn’t strong enough to carry the child to term? Was the doctor
