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❤Human woman Bonnie stumbled into Alpha Kane’s rose manor while drunk, spending an impulsive passionate night with him and bearing a permanent werewolf mark from their bond. She fled early the next morning in a sudden rush, leaving without a word. Five years later, Bonnie raises their half-wolf, half-human pups alone. Struggling to make ends meet, she takes a job as Kane's personal therapist to treat his intimacy addiction. Kane recognizes her instantly and insists she stay by his side. As they grow close, he discovers the five wolf cubs and learns they are his children. Sabrina, who has long pined for Kane, seethes with jealousy. She repeatedly schemes against Bonnie, even poisoning the sacred blood-testing water to claim the pups are not of Kane's bloodline. Her plot is exposed and she is imprisoned. But she escapes by sacrificing her soul, kidnapping the wolf pups once more. Kane and Bonnie race to rescue their children, plunging headfirst into a deadly new crisis.

Grant and I were secretly married for six years. At his family foundation’s gala, he slipped off his wedding ring to lead the opening dance with Meredith, his pregnant ex-fiancée. He told the press she was the one who had always understood his dreams. Every newspaper in Boston celebrated them finding their way back to each other. When he came home, he warned me, “Don’t make a scene.” I didn’t. On our wedding anniversary, I left a gift for him in his study. A velvet box, the kind meant for a celebratory gift. Inside were the divorce petition I’d already signed, the property settlement agreement, and the eight-week ultrasound of our baby, tucked beside an appointment confirmation for a termination procedure. He never even glanced at it. He was already out the door, rushing to comfort his ex, who had supposedly “had a nightmare.” He didn’t know he’d just thrown away his last chance. ... I looked at him, at the bare finger where his wedding ring should have been. Grant rubbed the pale indentation, an unconscious gesture, as if soothing a phantom limb. “The gala was crowded. My grandmother was there,” he explained, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. “It would have caused unnecessary complications.” The excuse was so lazy it was almost laughable. In the past, I would have pushed. I would have demanded to know where he’d put the ring, made him fish it out of his suit pocket, and watched him slide it back on his finger. This was, after all, the man I had once fought so hard for. Over the years, I’d grown adept at making excuses for him. Just like six months ago, when Meredith returned to Boston after her own divorce. He’d left me burning with a fever to drive halfway across the state to pick her up from the airport. When he got back, he ignored my protests and insisted on hiring her as a consultant for the family foundation. Back then, I’d chalked it up to his sense of responsibility, to the pul......

I was seven months pregnant when my husband, Graham, handed me a divorce agreement. He needed to marry another woman. A poor widow, he’d said, left behind by his best friend. He held me, his touch gentle, and promised it was only a three-month “technical arrangement.” He said he loved me. He said he had to honor his friend’s dying wish. He said that once he legally adopted the woman’s child and secured the baby’s place in the family trust, we would remarry immediately. He played the part so well. If only I hadn’t gone to his law firm. If only I hadn’t overheard him telling his lawyer— “Once Vivian gives birth to the Whitmore heir, she’ll have a reason to stay. She won’t leave me.” So that was his love. A calculation. His responsibility was just an excuse. And our child was the final chain he planned to use to bind me to him. I looked into his devoted eyes, smiled as I signed the papers, and said, “You’re so good to me.” He didn’t know that piece of paper would cost him his only heir. And he certainly didn’t know that on a stormy Thanksgiving night, when he abandoned me in premature labor for a manipulative woman and her child, he was dooming himself to a lifetime of regret, clutching nothing but a cold urn of ashes. … I was seven months pregnant when my husband, Graham Whitmore, brought his late friend’s widow, Sloane Mercer, and her wailing infant into our Beacon Hill home. I endured Sloane’s presence everywhere, the air of a second mistress settling into every room. I endured the fragile, dependent way she looked at Graham. I told myself he was only acting out of guilt and responsibility. The woman he loved was me. Until I found a receipt from a high-end maternity boutique in the pocket of his bespoke suit. Not a single item on it was for our child. Clutching that thin slip of paper, I drove to his lawyer’s office. I just wanted an explanation. But now I stood outside the heavy oak door of ......